Determined
by Sergeant Conley
Summary: Their foe isn't time, but the team is definitely in a race to stop an ex-SEAL hell-bent on killing senior covert operations officials in the name of revenge...and who's using one of their own to do it.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Though I date the beginning of this story as taking place around the same time as the Season 8 premier, as far as it's concerned this story has its own little place in continuity. I'm essentially trying to write "in the present" without having to worry about stuff like the Reynosa plotting, Hart's machinations, or anything else from the show canon that's specific to that timeframe.

And now for this additional note: this story was written for EleventhHour over at the NFA Community Forums for the Secret Santa Exchange, and thus is already finished. I'll be posting one chapter a day, making small fixes as I go.

Also, Happy New Year.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the television _NCIS _or its characters and storylines. Original characters named here and the general plot are the only things I can claim, and they're not worth much.

* * *

**George Washington Memorial Parkway/September 13, 2010, 1453 Romeo**

As the sun beat down on the near-empty roadways, a white and black van that looked like a box on wheels with a cab attached sped toward what looked to be another long day of work. The sleek blue letters on the white half of the van's sides identified it as belonging to NCIS, the Naval Criminal Investigative Service out of Washington, DC. Below that in white letters on the black half: Major Case Response Team. Its occupants were possibly the single most overworked and underappreciated employees of the entire United States Federal Government.

"I hate Mondays," was the commonly expressed opinion that Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo voiced again as another sign flew by the window, informing any who saw it of the dwindling number of miles until arrival at McLean, Virginia. "Wouldn't it figure that we catch a case on the single longest, most God-forsaken day of the week."

"Could be worse, Tony," SA Timothy McGee replied to his team's Senior Field Agent as he continued to look out the window to his right. He was enjoying not riding in the back for once, very much so.

"And how's that, McHalf-Full?" As he asked, Tony adjusted his position in the center seat of the cab, his attempts to find a comfortable one proving as vain as they always did.

"It could be Friday, meaning you'd have to cancel whatever late night plans you have for Fridays."

"You're right, that would be worse."

"How much longer until we arrive at the scene, Gibbs?" Probationary Special Agent Ziva David asked, her face framed by the small square window that connected the cab to the large rear box area.

"Not soon enough," Supervisory SA Leroy Jethro Gibbs replied, his eyes never leaving the road as he continued to guide their vehicle. It was a roughly sixty-one minute drive from NCIS Headquarters in the Washington Navy Yard to McLean, with about forty minutes spent in traffic. Gibbs's signature driving style, combined with a notable _lack_ of traffic, meant the drive would be made in a little less than ten.

"Have we ever been to McLean before?" Tony asked no one in particular. "You know, professionally?"

"Maybe," McGee said. "I don't remember any times off the top of my head."

"Might be all the slaps the Boss Man dishes out." Tony's quip was answered by Gibbs's right hand leaving the wheel and colliding palm-first with the back of his head, accompanied by an audible _thwack_.

"They would also explain more than a few things about Tony," Ziva replied with a sly smile. The only reply she got was Tony's grumbling about how old that joke was.

* * *

The house on Earnestine Street was flanked by a smaller, "normal" house on the left, when facing it from the street, and a larger, richer, and more similar looking "fancy" house on the right. In fact, the house in which a dead naval officer had been found was a balance of the two in many ways: it was the middle in terms of size, probable worth, and geography.

The driveway was large and wide ("Perfect for a good game of basketball," Tony had noted) and looked like it, and the garage it lead to, were meant for two or three vehicles. A cement walkway bridged the lawn between the front door and Earnestine itself. It also had a path that lead to the driveway, giving the whole walk a pattern similar to a cross missing the right horizontal arm.

The MCRT van was parked out front with various patrol cars from the McLean Police Department, who'd secured the scene when the body was found and had kept it that way since. As the team met at the back of the van to begin unloading their equipment, Gibbs turned to see an approaching officer.

"You Agent Gibbs?" the officer, who couldn't have been older than thirty-five, asked.

"Yeah." was the short and sweet reply he got in return. Gibbs had a reputation as a functional mute for a reason.

"Officer Dunn, I was the guy who first responded to the scene."

"Who called it in?"

"Those joggers," Dunn replied, pointing to two men in running clothes standing on the opposite side of the street with a few officers nearby. "They'd just come out to start their morning rounds when one of 'em noticed the victim's front door was open. He went to check and make sure everything was alright, saw that the lock had been broken, and called nine-one-one."

"He ever see the body?"

"No, he didn't even go into the house."

As the conversation continued, they made their way along the walk and toward the door, with the others right behind them.

"I showed up and called for back-up while I cleared the house. I found the victim in the back hallway leading to the master bedroom with three GSWs: two in the chest, one on the forehead."

"You touch the body?"

"No, I just made sure the house was clear and made sure it stayed that way. We questioned the witnesses and found out the house belonged to Gordon Callaway. They didn't know what he did exactly, but they knew he was active duty Navy, so we called you."

"Is the vic the owner?" Gibbs asked as they entered the greeting area. To the left was a wall with a door in it leading to the garage. To the right was an arched entryway leading to the living room.

"Dunno, didn't wanna risk contaminating the body by searching it for ID, so we left it for you guys," Dunn replied as he lead the four federal agents into the living room toward another wide, arched entryway. Through here they moved through the kitchen, where they found the hallway in question. Lying on the floor there, just outside of what appeared to be a study, was a body of a man in his early fifties wearing nothing but a white crew neck shirt and a pair of boxers. The shirt was marred by a large red splotch of blood surrounding two near black holes at its center. A matching hole marked the center of the dead man's forehead, a small and mostly coagulated pool of blood puddled under his head. Beside his right hand was a small handgun.

"At the least," Dunn continued. "Even if this guy ain't Callaway his house is still a crime scene."

"Yeah, it is," Gibbs agreed as he observed the body and the small handgun lying near its right hand. He didn't even look to his team as he dished out assignments. "McGee, shoot 'n' sketch, Ziva, bag 'n' tag. DiNozzo, you got the witnesses. Keep an eye out for Ducky."

And so they set to work, DiNozzo's task taking him outside while Ziva and McGee would normally work in tandem, Ziva placing numbered tags beside points of evidence which McGee would then photograph for posterity's sake. The thing was, however, that there wasn't much to document at this particular scene. Photos were taken of the body and the wounds it suffered, and there appeared to be one (very) partial shoeprint, but otherwise they weren't finding anything.

"This shooter was a professional," Ziva said as McGee snapped one last photo of the footprint located a few feet away from the body.

"What makes you say that?" he asked as he walked over the body and into the study that Callaway's left shoulder pointed toward.

"This pattern," she replied, pointing to the three holes in succession: chest, chest, head. "A double tap to the chest followed by a headshot. It's called the Mozambique Drill. It practically guarantees a kill, since the most important systems are hit. And look at this grouping on the chest shots: tight and mere millimeters apart. He knows how to handle a weapon."

McGee nodded as he looked at the body before turning back to glance down the hall, toward where the shooter had seemingly been standing. "Policed his brass, too."

"My next point," Ziva said with a raised finger. "He knows how to clean up after himself. I am thinking this man either has extensive military service or some other form of great experience with a firearm." After bagging what was most likely the victim's personal defense sidearm, she then set to work dusting the house for fingerprints, a task that only turned up on small partial on the doorway to the study.

"It's smudged," McGee noted after snapping a picture of the print. Ziva then set to work, sticking on and then peeling off the print-taking film.

"There is also heavy smudging below it," Ziva noted as she tucked the print away in an evidence bag. "I believe that our killer realized he had left a partial and tired to wipe it away, but rubbed the wrong part of the doorframe."

"How do you know that?"

"It is what I would have done…only I would not have missed the print," Ziva said this last part with her coy smile that only she seemed to be able to do.

"Which is why I'm glad you're on our side of the law, Ziva," the Scottish brogue of Dr. "Ducky" Mallard declared as the medical examiner himself entered the hallway, his assistant Jimmy Palmer behind him. The two crouched beside the body, the older doctor slower than the young and spry ME-in-training, where Ducky placed his first two fingers against Callaway's neck.

"Oh he's quite dead alright," he said, thus releasing the body to be moved and further documented. As Jimmy inserted the liver probe into the corpse's torso, Ducky held up one of the man's hands for McGee to scan with the portable fingerprint scanner.

"The advancement of criminal forensics technology never ceases to amaze me," Ducky commented as the scanner worked its magic. "I can still remember when AFIS was the next leap forward in our war on crime. I recall a case where it would've been quite useful, in 1980 a sheriff and his deputy entered the home of a missing man who'd supposedly found-"

"Something that helps me catch our killer, Duck?" Gibbs interrupted, as he usually did. Often times it was better that he did, otherwise Ducky's story would be liable to lead into another, which would only be the beginning of a never-ending chain.

"No, actually, a large sum of drug money he decided to take for himself and start a new life with. Unfortunately for him, there was a contract killer hired to-"

"Ducky," Gibbs interjected.

"Oh, yes," Ducky conceded as he returned his gaze to the body. "Well cause of death seems fairly obvious, but we've all seen enough odd cases to learn not to assume."

"ID confirmed," McGee said as he read the information on the scanner's screen. "This is, in fact, Captain Gordon Callaway, US Navy."

"And how long has the captain been deceased, Mr. Palmer?" Ducky asked his assistant as the younger man extracted the liver probe and examined the reading.

"Approximately eleven hours, Doctor."

"Puts time of death around oh-four-hundred," Gibbs said.

"Yes, well, at any rate Mr. Palmer and I shall take our guest back home, and see what information he has to share."

* * *

**NCIS Headquarters/ September 13, 2010, 1823 Romeo**

_Click_

The squadroom plasma screen between McGee and DiNozzo's desks displayed an image captured by McGee's camera during the crime scene processing. It was a wall in the study before which Captain Gordon Callaway had been shot to death, specifically the one to a person's left when they walked through the door. On it were framed certificates of promotion and graduation from Naval training programs.

"Pretty average Wall for a captain," McGee commented from his seat, where he was waiting for a scan on his computer to finish. Ziva came to stand beside Tony, who was rooted before the plasma with the remote in his hand.

"It does not look any different from the other walls," she said.

"He's not talking about the actual wall," Tony explained, his eyes still on the image. "He means the I Love Me Wall."

"I Love Me Wall?"

"A wall of certificates, degrees, plaques, pictures, and stuff that commemorates someone's various academic and occupational achievements," McGee explained. "You're most likely to see 'em in the offices or studies of lawyers, doctors, politicians-"

"And military officers," Tony finished. "But what'd you mean by 'pretty average?'"

McGee shrugged. "My dad started out enlisted and made officer after about five years. He retired after twenty years as an O-4, and his Wall had more stuff than that." A nostalgic smile then crossed his face. "Whenever we moved to a new house, we might rearrange every single possession we owned differently than how we had it in the last house, but dad would always put his Wall up the exact same way he had it in all the other ones."

"What's fancy paper got to do with our dead captain, McGee?" Gibbs asked as he strolled into the bullpen, coffee in hand, before dropping the empty cup into the trash.

"Uh, well," McGee stumbled, sitting up as quickly as he could. "It just looks to me like he didn't work as hard in advancing his career as a captain normally would."

"And someone killed him for being a slacker?" Tony asked incredulously.

"Seems like a good idea to me, sometimes," Gibbs said as he joined the small huddle before the screen.

"Perhaps he received a posting someone else thought they deserved?" Ziva offered, ignoring the concerned look on Tony's face. "Especially if they put in far more work than Callaway to earn it."

"Well, he did have a pretty nice posting," Tony commented before clicking the remote, prompting Callaway's service record to appear. "Captain Gordon Callaway worked in the Pentagon, serving as a liaison between the Joint Chiefs and Fort Bragg, where he was responsible for force deployment in the Middle East in JSOC until about a year ago."

"Jay sock?" Ziva asked.

"Joint Special Operations Command," McGee explained. "It focuses on interoperability between various SOCOM components and also handles deployments of Special Mission Units. It's also the parent command of the Army Intelligence Support Activity."

"The only three publicly recognized SMUs to date," Tony added. "Are Delta Force, the Air Force's 24th Special Tactics Squadron, and DEVGRU."

"And what is 'deav-groo?'" Ziva inquired.

"Naval Special Warfare Development Group," Gibbs answered. "Used to be called SEAL Team Six."

"Ah." There was a light of recognition in Ziva's eyes. "So he was responsible for putting the country's most dangerous warriors where they needed to be in the Middle Eastern theater?"

"Yep," Tony answered. "Means he also knows a lot about any black ops they ran in the past…eight years."

"Think someone was looking for classified intel?" McGee asked.

"If the killer wanted info out of Callaway, he wouldn't have put three bullets in him," Gibbs replied.

"So what we've got so far," Tony started. "Is a professional killer breaking in the front door around four AM-ish. Callaway hears him, heads out with his gun to confront the intruder, and gets tagged in the hallway."

"Looks that way," Gibbs said. "Now to figure out why. David, call up his office, figure out if he'd been acting strange lately. DiNozzo, contact the family, find out if he'd taken an interest in settling his estate."

"You thinkin' he might've known someone was after him?" McGee asked as the search on his computer finished.

"Don't hurt to find out," Gibbs replied before heading off to Abby's.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** See chapter 1 for the disclaimer.

* * *

**NCIS Headquarters/September 13, 2010, 1828 Romeo**

The music was loud and thumping with bass, just the way Abby liked it. Gibbs walked in, Caf-Pow in hand, and reflected on how this lab seemed to be its own little world, with Abby as the sun that kept it shining and alive. It always seemed dead to him whenever she was gone and the music was off, just a soulless lab of cold metal and sterility.

"Gibbs!" Abby exclaimed happily as she turned from her computer station and met him by the work table. She reached for the drink in Gibbs's hand, but the agent pulled it out of her reach.

"Whadduya got Abby?" he asked, ignoring the look she gave him.

Ignoring the fact that he was ignoring the look, Abby returned to the computer and brought up the running searches. "Well, first of all, this guy definitely knows how to leave as little trace as possible. No prints on the door handle, but there was dirt on the door itself to indicate he kicked it open. Knew just the right spot to do it too, broke the lock in one solid whack."

"The partial on the study doorframe?"

Abby gave an amused chuckle. "Gibbs, that partial is so…well, partial, that you'd be more likely to find a Chef Boyardee MRE than a match off of it."

"The shoeprint in the hall?"

"Boot print, actually. There's barely anything there, not even enough to match against if we ever find the killer and his own pair, but I'm almost certain that he wore a form of Wellco combat boots."

"Kind used by SEALs?" Gibbs asked as he peered over Abby's shoulder at the computer screen. He was simultaneously trying to make sense of the jumbled data on the screen, failing as always, and wondering why he ever bothered trying (as always).

"Yep. Specifically it's a right boot, and based on the soil the print was made of and the sample from the door, it was the same boot he used to kick it in. I'm thinkin' your suspect is right –handed, maybe ambidextrous."

"If you can figure out the brand and foot of the boot, how come you can't match it to the killer's?"

"It matches Wellco's ridge patterns, which are similar but with minute differences depending on the model of boot. The part visible in the print is a part of the ridge common to all Wellco boots. As for which foot, well, it's just a matter of the curve."

Gibbs nodded, knowing she was referring to the inward curve a piece of footwear made. A left shoe or boot would have a slight curve to the right, whereas a right shoe/boot would slightly curve to the left.

"Got anything on the slugs yet?"

"Just waitin' for-"

The beeping of a machine cut her off and drew both of their gazes towards it. They looked back to each other, and Abby gave a big smile. "Done," she said before they went over to the device in question. Abby grabbed the printout it made and read over it.

"Well, Gibbs, I see your killer favors a .45."

"ACP?"

"Yep, standard hollow-point. I'll get a search going to see if the striations match any currently open cases. If anything pops up, I'll be sure to call."

Gibbs handed her the Caf-Pow and leaned in with a kiss to her cheek. "That's good work, Abbs," he said, as always, before walking out the door, likely to Autopsy. Abby watched him go with a satisfied smile and a slurp of the straw.

* * *

The heavy _thump_ of a freezer closing was punctuated by the quiet hiss of the automatic doors opening, thus granting Gibbs entrance to Autopsy. He immediately saw Jimmy Palmer walking away from a wall of the body freezers, removing the medical gown over his scrubs as he did so. Standing before the illuminated lamp box on which the x-rays were hung, Ducky looked to see his old friend entering.

"Ah, hello Jethro. I must say, I'm rather disappointed."

"Why's that Duck?" Gibbs asked as he came to a stop beside the M.E. and examined the x-rays.

"I believe I've become spoiled by cases wherein the deceased tell me clues that help explain the circumstances surrounding their murders. Bruise marks to indicate restraints, an occasional oddity such as a swallowed bag of heroin, or even something as helpful as DNA under the fingernails. Not to mention when we must investigate something particularly curious, such as-"

"Duck."

"Oh, yes. It seems Captain Callaway's death was rather mundane and quick, in regards to what we've seen in other cases," Ducky explained as he turned and walked to the freezers, Gibbs following right behind him. Once there, Ducky opened a drawer and pulled out the stitched-up body Jimmy had just stowed away.

"No defensive wounds, no signs of beating, torture, or restraint," Ducky rattled off as he pointed to the areas of the body commonly associated with such marks. "No overt signs of anything really. The only things out of the ordinary were the rounds we removed and sent up to Abby, as well as the wounds they were embedded in of course."

"So the killer just shot him?"

"So it would seem, Jethro. I'm afraid there's nothing to help in identifying your killer other than the slugs."

"Abby's running a search right now to see if the gun's been used in another crime," Gibbs explained before turning. "Let me know if you find anything new, Duck!" he called just before the door parted to allow him exit.

Ducky looked at the dead officer before him, shook his head, and slid the drawer back in before closing it with the same _thump_ that had precluded Gibbs's entrance.

"Do you think there's anything to actually find, Doctor?" Jimmy asked, looking up from the minor report he was signing.

The answer he got was simple: "Something tells me, Mister Palmer, that the captain as said all he has to say."

The rest of the day made very little progress. They'd contacted family and friends and arranged interviews for the next day, followed leads that'd gone nowhere, and ultimately came up unusually short for the first day of an investigation.

It wasn't until the next day that a real development came through.

* * *

**NCIS Headquarters/September 14, 2010, 1513 Romeo**

Ziva David walked through the halls of NCIS Headquarters with a purpose, a file tucked under her arm with notes she'd written during what was, hopefully, her last interview of the day. As she finally came to the squadroom, she managed to arrive at Gibbs's desk just as Tony was finishing his verbal report before it.

"-hadn't been acting any different than he usually did. Far as she knew, there wasn't anything going on or out of the ordinary."

"His son says the same," Ziva said, startling the Very Special Agent in the oh-so-satisfying way Ziva was a master at. "And the ex-wife, and the brother."

"So co-workers and family both say nothing was going on with Captain Callaway," McGee observed from his desk as Tony was taking deep breaths and knocking on his chest with the side of his fist. "Maybe it was a home invasion gone wrong? Guy on the streets who happens to have a gun and some training decides to break in for some money?"

"But why kick the door open in such a violent manner?" Ziva asked. "Anyone would know that such an entrance would awaken the home owners. No, this man knew what he was doing. He had a reason for killing Callaway."

"Maybe it was a personal killing?" Tony asked, now only partially out of breath. "Someone from back in Callaway's JSOC days maybe."

Gibbs's phone rang and put a halt to the theorizing. "Gibbs," was the usual gruff answer he gave. He listened for a few moments before saying, "Be right down," and hanging up.

"McGee, you're with me," Gibbs ordered as he stood and began walking towards the rear hallway, the junior agent following suit. "DiNozzo, David, start tracking down people Callaway worked with in JSOC, go all the way back to his first day."

"Uh, Boss?" Tony asked, his voice conveying a sense of unease and futility. "That's eight years and two bases' worth of co-workers to go through."

"Then ya better get started!" Gibbs called before he and McGee disappeared into the elevator.

For a moment, Tony and Ziva only looked after them. Then Ziva snapped her head to her partner.

"_Two_ bases?"

Tony nodded grimly. "Fort Bragg and Pope Air Force Base."

Ziva shook her head. "Sometimes, your special operations forces confuse me."

"They're _yours_ now, too," Tony grinned. The grin vanished when she punched him in the shoulder.

* * *

When Gibbs and McGee entered Abby's lab, they found the forensics expert lying supine on her futon, her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped tightly around her shins. Though Gibbs and McGee both felt the same feeling of curiosity, only McGee's face showed it.

"What're you doing, Abby?" Gibbs asked as the two agents came to a stop beside her, their heads tilted down to see her.

"Just relaxin'," she replied, showing no inclination to move from her current position.

"Is that like a yoga position or something?" McGee asked.

"Nope. It's a physiologically advantageous position to increase the chances of conception after intercourse," she explained.

Even Gibbs raised his eyebrows in surprise, a more subtle contrast to the comical look of shocked confusion on McGee's face.

"Wait, _what?_" the junior agent asked.

"Oh relax," Abby admonished. "I'm not using it like _that_. I just think it's cozy." She then rocked back, her feet now almost pointing toward the ceiling, then rolled forward and used the momentum to bring her feet to the ground. At the right moment, she released her shins and leapt up, all in one smooth motion that took about one second.

"Good news, Gibbs," she said as she walked toward her computer station. "We got a match on the bullet striations."

After shaking his head clear of the preceding scare, Gibbs followed. "Case still open?"

"Yep. I started off searching through the NCIS database of open and cold cases and got nothing, so I expanded the search to Metro's cases. A few minutes ago, I finally got a match."

Abby typed on her main keyboard, and a case file appeared on screen. Pages and photos appeared as Abby talked.

"Randall Stockwell was found dead in his home in, of all places, McLean, Virginia. His front door showed no signs of forced entry, but the back door had a hole broken into one of its glass panes. The intruder likely just reached in and unlocked it, and the alarm system didn't go off because he'd killed the power to the house beforehand. They're thinking he then sat in the house and waited for Stockwell, then ambushed him."

"His eyes must've adjusted to the dark while he waited," McGee theorized.

"Or he had NVGs," Gibbs countered.

"So, other than living in the same town, what connection does Stockwell have to Callaway?"

"Welll," Abby started before typing up more images. "Stockwell likely lived in McLean because it was the location of his place of employment, a certain government agency headquarters."

"Langley," Gibbs said.

"Bingo," Abby affirmed. "He didn't work just anywhere in the CIA, though, he was a higher-up in the Es-Oh-Gee."

"Special Operations Group," McGee said.

Gibbs only nodded as information of the SOG flashed through his head. It was the most premier covert and deniable operations unit in the intelligence world, often considered the most elite special ops group _period_. As if reading his next piece of thought, McGee spoke up.

"Lotta their new agents come from JSOC. They even use operatives who're still in service for some ops."

The images that flashed through Gibbs's head were almost like snatches of film, grainy and overexposed by time and age …

_A humid jungle in Colombia._

_The feel of a rifle tucked into his shoulder and a burlap suit covered in vegetation._

_So damn hot._

_Intense pain, and a beautiful woman._

"Didn't know you knew that much about it, Tim," Abby said, bringing Gibbs back to the present.

McGee shrugged. "Researched it for a book I was gonna do."

"Not another one about us, was it?" she asked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"No! No, uh, it didn't really go anywhere."

Gibbs set his jaw and studied the file on Stockwell. "He have anything to do with the Middle East anytime from 2001 to '09?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," Abby said before typing in a few more commands. The image showed a specific portion of Rockwell's personnel file in the CIA. "He was responsible for coordinating operations in the Middle-east between SOG paramilitary operations officers and JSOC operatives from 2003 to 2008."

Gibbs and McGee shared a look. "We've got a solid connection," the team leader said.

"Yeah," McGee sighed. "And it just happens to be the most classified command component in the entire United States military."

Ignoring the gripe, Gibbs turned back to Abby. "Who's the Metro detective in charge of the case?" he asked.

"Oh, it's not a Metro case anymore," she replied. "Once they found out Stockwell worked for the CIA, they sent it right up to the FBI."

"Alright, so who's the _agent_ in charge of the case?"

Abby typed in a few more commands, read her screen then turned to face Gibbs with a hand on her hip.

"Wanna take a guess?" she asked.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** See chapter 1 for the disclaimer.

* * *

**Randall Stockwell's Condo, McLean, Virginia/September 15, 2010, 1521 Romeo**

It'd taken him awhile longer than Gibbs would've liked, but FBI Agent Tobias Fornell eventually showed up with the complete case file on the Stockwell killing. He and Gibbs filled each other in (in the privacy of Gibbs's office) and, somehow, peacefully agreed to co-operate on an even level for the investigation. The next day, Fornell and Sacks managed to get a look into the Callaway file, as a second set of eyes to hopefully catch something the first set might've missed.

Team Gibbs did one better and re-processed the FBI's crime scene.

"Oh, _man_," Tony said as he stood up straight and bent slightly backward, causing a few vertebrae to crackle and pop like bubble wrap. "I haven't crawled around under a bed that much since I was seven."

"I'm telling you, Tony, there's nothing the FBI missed," McGee's voice came through the earwig Tony wore. The subtle communications equipment had been "acquisitioned" to allow McGee to communicate from outside, where he'd been banished to after losing the rock-paper-scissors game to dumpster dive in the alley behind Stockwell's condo for evidence. Not only did it contain Stockwell's garbage and the garbage of a few dozen other residents though, the area around it also seemed to serve as the resident living center for the homeless in the area.

McGee had been, understandably, very displeased when he climbed in, lost his footing, and landed right in something McGee didn't ever, _ever_ want to identify.

"You haven't even been in here, McStinky-stinky-_stin_ky," Tony said. "You don't get to say what is or isn't here."

Ziva, meanwhile, was going over her notes of the case file. She slowly moved throughout the living room where Stockwell had been murdered, her eyes locked on the notepad and her mind's eye seeing what happened. She then raised her head and scanned the room, matching it to her mental movie to see what matched and what didn't. Just as she confirmed it matched almost perfectly, Tony waltzed in.

"Bedroom's clear. I'm starting to think the killer didn't even set a foot anywhere outside the living room and the kitchen."

Ziva, however, seemed to ignore him as she moved to stand where the killer was speculated to have been standing when he'd killed Stockwell.

"McGee came up short in the trash too, save for his new aroma," Tony continued, obviously peeved that Ziva wasn't replying. For her part, the female probie simply looked around the room, carefully, from her proverbial spot in the killer's shoes.

Tony set his jaw in annoyance before trying one last thing to get her attention. "Actually the smell kinda reminds me of this one time I walked in on Gibbs and Abby in the act."

"It must have been the smell of whatever has killed so many of your brain cells." Ziva replied without even looking at him as she locked her gaze on a nearby air conditioning vent in the floor. Drawing her knife, she walked to and knelt beside it as Tony joined her.

"What're ya doing?"

"Following my gut," Ziva replied, again without looking at him as she used her knife to unscrew the vent.

"Probies aren't allowed to have guts," Tony responded as he watched Ziva shine a light down the black hole with one gloved hand, and dive in with the other. When it came back up, the white latex was filthy and grimy with dust, but held between her thumb and forefinger was a single brass shell.

"Woman's intuition, then," Ziva said with her famous smile.

* * *

Gibbs hung up and turned to Fornell. "They found a shell casing in an air conditioning vent. It's dusty, but they're bringing it back for Abby to work on."

"What good's that gonna do?" Fornell asked. "All she can do with it is confirm the bullet came from the casing, and therefore the casing came from the murder weapon. Problem is we have no weapon to compare it with, so we don't actually have _any_thing."

"She'll find something," Gibbs replied simply before taking a sip of his coffee. Fornell's phone rang, and the FBI agent pulled it out of his pocket.

"Fornell…yes…think he's legit? No kiddin'? Alright, bring him in, we'll talk to him."

"What was that?" Gibbs asked as his friend hung up.

"A guy from the CIA we were lookin' for called us up. He just got back from business in Cairo and found out about Stockwell. Now he's saying he has info about it and wants to share."

Gibbs popped his neck before standing. "Let's go share then."

* * *

**NCIS Headquarters/September 15, 2010, 1614 Romeo**

When Elliot Cress of the CIA was picked up by an FBI agent _and_ an NCIS agent, his first words had been, "Callaway's dead, too, isn't he." It'd definitely been a resigned statement of fact, and Gibbs's interest had definitely been grabbed. For convenience's sake, they decided to interview him at NCIS Headquarters, so that if Abby's magic turned something up on the casing, they could simply head downstairs to find out what rather than drive all the way from the Hoover Building.

Now Gibbs, Fornell, and Cress sat in a conference room, a notepad before Gibbs and a tape recorder between him and Cress, who appeared to be in his early forties and looked tired and defeated. Finally, Fornell started off.

"So what have you been doing lately, Mr. Cress?" he asked.

"I've been in Cairo on work-related business for, I'd say, about a month," Cress replied. "It's really hard to reach me out there unless you're with the Agency. Different times of day, weather conditions, and whether or not I'm working are big factors in if I can take a call."

"Did you know Randall Stockwell?" Gibbs asked. He already knew the answer, but it was a formality of the questioning.

Cress nodded. "Before I got my current position, I used to be Stockwell's assistant in the SOG-JSOC coordination department of the CIA's Special Activities Division, which the SOG is a part of. I actually ended up in that spot after 9-11, first working for a guy named Jordy Verill until Stockwell replaced him in '03. Stockwell kept me as his assistant until '08, then we both went our separate ways and on to better things. During those five years though, he and I were like professional Siamese twins…until the end of our partnership, at least."

"You keep in touch with him afterward?"

"Not really. An occasional card or call, that's about it. In all honesty, after one of our last jobs together, I really didn't want anything to do with him. Buuut, my mother raised a polite fool, so I simply kept contact to a minimum."

"What were your duties as Stockwell's assistant?" Fornell asked.

"To be appraised of the same intel he was, help him keep things organized, and if necessary fill in his shoes should he be absent. I actually had to do that once, and I didn't like it at all."

"And what exactly did Stockwell do?" Gibbs chimed in.

"As the SOG-JSOC coordinator, he was part of a five man…'committee,' for lack of a better term, one of two such groups. This committee deliberated and decided upon force deployment and operation execution for joint SOG-JSOC outfits in the Middle East, where exactly is classified. Two of the other committee members were strictly from SOG/SAD, the other two from JSOC, and then Randy to help them function together."

"Mr. Cress, when we picked you up you said 'Callaway's dead, too, isn't he,'" Gibbs said, steering the conference into his jurisdiction. "How did you know Captain Callaway, and how did you know he was dead?"

Cress sighed, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a pack of Winterfresh. After withdrawing a stick and returning the pack, he unwrapped the chosen piece of gum and bent it into his mouth. "I gave up smoking fifteen years ago when I was in my twenties," he said offhandedly. "Doesn't matter that I only smoked for four years, every day I feel the need for a nice, full cancer stick. When I get stressed, it gets even worse." He gnawed on the gum as he seemed lost in thought, then he spoke again.

"Callaway was one of the JSOC representatives on the committee. He was still there when Randy and I left. I only remember him especially because he and I frequented the same lunch spot. Nice enough fellow, but we never really became friends, so I didn't keep in contact with him after I transferred."

"Doesn't explain how you knew he was dead," Gibbs said, carefully watching the man before him. He seemed guilty, but his gut told him it wasn't the crime itself that wrenched…not entirely.

Cress was silent for a moment, then he began to unload his burden. "Couple days ago, just before I left Cairo, I got a call from an unknown number. Surprised the hell outta me, 'cause no one takes the effort to reach me unless it's work related, and I know those numbers by heart. So I answered and talked to a guy here in the States. He told me that he was a retired operator, and that he'd worked in JSOC until '08. He told me about a mission he'd been on, and my gut clenched up because I knew what op he was talking about. It was one that our committee had been in charge of."

Cress closed his eyes and massaged his forehead before continuing. "A small team of DEVGRU operators was gonna infiltrate a small city. Can't say what country or province, but suffice to say it was a very anti-coalition locale. They'd go in, snatch three high-value targets, then exfil. If exfil wasn't possible because, say, their cover was blown, we'd send in an Army Ranger company in a vehicle convoy to basically strong-arm 'em out. Well, the op goes down, and wouldn't you know it, their cover was blown. They managed to hole up in a shack on the main road of the city near its outer limits, within easy travel distance for a well-armed convoy…they'd been in that shack three days when they finally managed to fix their radio and contact us. If they'd called even eleven hours before they did, we would've sent that convoy and gotten them out with nothing worse than enemy casualties and maybe a few civilians."

Gibbs and Fornell shared a look, then returned their gazes to Cress. "But you didn't send them?" Gibbs asked.

"No," Cress replied. "Much as I hate it, politics and the will to win of those back home have more impact on the battlefield than any foot soldier, tank, or bomb. By the time the team had called us, the scene back home had changed, and a large deployment of troops to that area of the country would've been political suicide. Unfortunately for the men on the ground, most of the committee had political aspirations after the military and the Agency…"

Cress sighed again and shook his head in an odd mixture of regret and disgust. "The committee decided four to one in favor of withholding the Ranger convoy. Randy and Callaway were two of the four. The committee's next transmission to the team in the city was to inform them that help was not available, they were to do what they could to escape on their own, and they were wished the best of luck. All communications were then terminated."

"What happened to the team?" Fornell asked.

"The man who called me in Cairo said that he was the only one who made it out. He walked on foot to a friendly zone and carried one of the targets on his shoulders the whole way. Not long after that op, he retired from the Navy and tried to get on with his life. He said that for the past two years he'd tried to come to grips with the loss of his team, but he was failing miserably. Finally, he decided to find and talk to the men responsible and get a definitive answer. He thought that if he knew for a solid fact _why_ his team couldn't be saved, he might find some semblance of closure."

"So he'd gotten to digging, calling in old favors from his days in the field as both a Navy man and a borrowed SOG operator. He'd gotten to me as an assistant and was pleading with me to at least give him a few names."

Cress stopped chewing, let out a deep exhale through his nose, and lowered his chin in shame. "I believed him. Every word. So I told him the two names I really knew, Randy and Callaway's, and told him what I could remember of the other three: Hanson, Margott, and Merdetzky. Then I got home and heard about Randy…and that whoever did it was a professional. I called the FBI as soon as I could. Then you two showed up, and all I did was connect the dots."

"Those names you gave, the committee members', did you give any first names?" Gibbs asked as Fornell wrote the names down.

"No. I didn't know 'em, just their names and that Hanson was in the Army."

After Fornell asked how to spell "Merdetzky" and Cress told him, Gibbs's phone rang.

"Gibbs…uh-huh…be right there Abs." After hanging up, he turned to Cress. "Alright Mr. Cress, what you've told us today has been very helpful. All we need to know is one more thing: what was the name of the man who called you?"

"Hauser," Cress said, and his face was pained as he said it. "Vince Hauser."


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** See chapter 1 for the disclaimer.

* * *

**NCIS Headquarters/September 15, 2010, 1617 Romeo**

Abby felt, more than heard, Gibbs and someone else enter the lab. She turned to see her feelings confirmed, for before her were, in fact, Gibbs, Fornell, and most importantly of all, a fresh cup of Caf-Pow.

"Gibbs! You are _not _going to believe what I've got for you," she said as she started machine gunning commands into her computer. "That brass in the air conditioning vent had been down there ever since the shooting, which was about three days ago. In that time, your usual microscopic layer of dust had accumulated on it, but not only _that_, there was also the matter of all the dust, gunk, and grime it'd rolled over once it landed and settled. After all that, any forensic evidence on that casing other than the weapon and bullet striations should've been nonexistent."

"But it wasn't?" Gibbs asked as he and Fornell took place on opposite sides of Abby and watched the info on her screens. As usual, they were trying (and failing) to discern what the mumbo jumbo meant.

"_Exactly!_ In fact, what I found was so pristine and perfect, it might as well have been mere minutes old! I mean, the likelihood of that happening is, like, one in fifteen-million, and it happened! Do you know how lucky we are? We could've had squat, and-"

"Abby."

"Right, sorry." Finally, an image of the casing with a distinct black collection of lines in a noticeable and familiar shape appeared. "I got a _thumbprint_ off the casing. It must've come from when he loaded the round into the magazine, but it's there, and I got a near-perfect match off it. I say 'near' because it turned up two matches. To be fair, these guys have near identical prints, the kinda thing that would make doctors go crazy and debate over it in a lotta science journals. And even weirder than that? _Both matches come from the Navy database!_ I know you don't believe in coincidences, Gibbs, but I can't think of _any_thing else to call that!"

"Abbs! The guys the prints came from?"

"Oh yeah," More commands, and then two pictures appeared onscreen. "One is Fire Controlman Third Class Doug Boulder, stationed on the _USS Colorado_. Isn't _that_ hinky too? A guy named 'Boulder' on the '_Colorado_'? That's like-"

She stopped when she saw the look Gibbs was giving her.

"Controlman Boulder," she resumed, as if the moment hadn't happened. "Has been at sea for three months of a six month deployment cruise. The other match comes from a retired SEAL, which would explain the pro-ness of this guy when he kills people, and the Wellco boots too, though, I guess you'd already figure that out. Anyway, his name is-"

"Vince Hauser," Gibbs answered for her, his eyes never leaving the image of the man on the screen before them.

* * *

_Click_

The plasma screen between McGee and DiNozzo's desk now showed the Service Record Book of the MCRT's only suspect. He didn't quite look his forty-years of age, even with the black stubble that looked to be on the verge of full beardhood.

"Chief Special Warfare Operator Vince Hauser," McGee began from his desk, his eyes more on the small quarter circle formed by the MCRT and Agent Fornell than the screen. "Enlisted in the Navy right out of high school at age eighteen in 1988, went right into SEAL qualification and training immediately afterwards by means of the SEAL Challenge Contract. Spent the next twenty-eight and a half months earning his SO rating, then became a full-fledged SEAL and was assigned to SEAL Team Three literally two days before it was deployed to the Middle East in 1990."

"After serving in Kuwait and Iraq," Tony picked up. "Hauser remained in Team Three until 1993, when he transferred to the Naval Special Warfare Development Group. We don't really know anything about what he did there because…well…"

Another _click_ brought up other pages of his SRB, with lines upon lines of text rendered unreadable by black ink.

"They're pretty serious about 'classified,' Boss."

"Whatever Hauser did," Ziva interjected. "He did it for fifteen years before retiring in 2008 at the age of 38. He then moved to Alaska and, for the most part, has remained isolated and secluded away. So much so, in fact, that no one even knows where his home is."

"A regular Bob Lee Swagger," Tony said. "Only he's a SEAL instead of a Marine Scout Sniper."

"Any way we can get access to his DEVGRU info?" Gibbs asked.

"Well…not legally," McGee said, shifting in his seat as he did so.

"Why don't you get it, Fornell?" Tony asked the odd man out of the group. "We know how much you love to throw your FBI weight around, since it gets oh so much more done than our wimpy NCIS weight."

"Yeah, fat chance DiNutso," Fornell replied. "I'd be lucky if I could find out the name of at least one of his teammates. My director might be able to get something, but he and I don't exactly rub elbows."

Gibbs turned and started leaving the bullpen area, heading for the stairs toward MTAC.

"McGee, find out what you can about those committee members Cress told us about," he ordered. "Start with Merdetzky, can't be many of those in the CIA. DiNozzo, try to contact his family, then find out as much about Hauser's time in Team Three as you can. Track down old teammates, get some thoughts. David, track down where Hauser lives. Start with the locals of the nearest town, he's probably been there to get supplies, and maybe someone's made a delivery."

"And what are _you _gonna do?" Fornell asked sarcastically, having to raise his voice to be heard by the man now almost entirely up the stairs.

"Rub elbows!" Gibbs replied from the balcony, his voice equally raised.

* * *

When Director Leon Vance's door opened and Gibbs came strolling in, unannounced and unexpected, he wasn't surprised in the least.

"Sometimes I consider putting a keypad lock on that door," Vance said as Gibbs closed the door in question, then walked to and sat in one of the chairs before his desk. "Then giving everyone the code but you."

Gibbs shrugged. "I'd just get it outta McGee."

Vance just snorted and shook his head before getting down to business. "How's your joint investigation going?"

"We've got a connection and a suspect," Gibbs replied. "Our victims were part of a joint SOG-JSOC committee responsible for force deployment in the Middle East. We're thinkin' our suspect is killing them as payback for a mission he was a part of that ended badly. The committee had withheld reinforcements for political reasons, and our suspect was the only guy in his team to make it out."

"Sounds like a movie," Vance remarked.

Gibbs looked around. "Heard that one before."

Vance leaned forward, found his trusty toothpick before placing it in its rightful spot in his mouth, and leaned back. "Who's the suspect?"

"Retired SEAL Chief Petty Officer Vince Hauser. Not just any SEAL though. The last three-quarters of his twenty year career are heavily classified."

"How classified?"

"'Tier One Operator' classified."

"Please don't tell me you need access to that information."

"Don't feel like lyin' right now, Leon."

Vance sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Is what you need to know critical to your investigation?"

"Maybe," Gibbs replied. "That's why I wanna take a look and find out."

Another sigh from the director. "I can _maybe_ get the part of the file pertaining to the mission that went south. Don't expect too much, Jethro."

Gibbs shrugged as he stood. "I'll take what I can get, Leon," he said before taking his leave.

* * *

**NCIS Headquarters/September 15, 2010, 1720 Romeo**

Gibbs strolled into the bullpen with a cup carrier holding five cups of coffee and an empty slot. He was pleased to see his three agents working quietly, a departure from Tony's usually sophomoric attempts at delaying said work.

Gibbs came to stand before Ziva's desk. She was, at first, oblivious to his presence, having thrown herself fully into the search. Finally though, he saw her nose twitch, and she looked to him and the elixir he held.

"Whadduya got?" Gibbs asked.

Ziva intertwined her fingers and raised her hands high above her head, as high as her arms could stretch. The popping from the small of her back explained the reasoning of this before she settled into a normal stance. "Chief Hauser lives somewhere near Ruby, Alaska. He occasionally purchases canned goods in town, however the people I spoke to have the impression that, if he really wanted to close himself off from the rest of the world, he would have no problem at all surviving off the wildlife. As for the location of his home, all they know is that it is somewhere 'down west of town.'"

"Has anyone seen him lately?"

"He did make one shopping trip for canned goods, various beverages, and other supplies four days ago. He has not been seen since."

Gibbs nodded before taking a cup from the carrier and placing it on her desk. Leaving Ziva to enjoy her reward, he moved to Tony's desk. The younger agent was just hanging up his phone.

"Chief Hauser _has_ no family," he said. "He was disowned by his father when he enlisted, and any chances of reconciliation ended when the old man put him through a bar-front window when he came back on leave. All he got was a gash on his head that needed stitches, but it basically ended any connection to someone outside the Navy that Hauser had. He basically made his team his family."

"What kind of SEAL was he?"

"By all accounts? A born natural. As the Leading Petty Officer of his platoon put it, 'grass grows, birds sing, the sun shines, and brother, he hurts people.'"

"So why'd he take retirement?"

"Dunno. The LPO didn't keep in touch with him after he was transferred, hell he didn't even know that Hauser ended up in DEVGRU."

Gibbs nodded before setting a cup before him and moving to McGee's desk.

"Whadduya got, Tim?"

"Well, there are actually two Merdetzkys in the CIA," McGee said without looking away from his screen, or even stopping typing. "One's been in the agency four years and is stationed as an intel analyst in Moscow. The other, Stan Merdetzky, was formerly a ranking member of the SAD, and resides in McLean. That's all I've been able to find with my clearance level."

"I might be able to help with that," Fornell said as he walked up beside Gibbs, reached around his arm, and lifted a cup of coffee from the carrier. He opened the top, checked it, then returned the top and enjoyed a nice long sip through the mouth hole. After letting out a very pleased sigh, he continued. "I've got a guy back at the Hoover Building who's done a lotta computer work for Langley. He can probably find a lot more about this than anyone in this building."

"Even the director?" McGee asked incredulously.

"Even the director," Fornell replied with a nod.

"Alright, bring him in," Gibbs said before handing McGee his cup. "Is Merdetzky's name in the phonebook?"

"No, Boss, he's a private listing."

"Alright, that means Hauser doesn't know where to find him yet. I want you to head to McLean, pick him up, and get him to a safehouse. I'll get with the director and have one set up, then call you to let you know which one to head to."

"On it Boss," McGee replied as he took the coffee and began gathering his things. He had just started to step from behind his desk when Gibbs tossed him the keys to the sedan, which he caught. And so Tony and Ziva resumed their work, Gibbs went to Vance's office, and Fornell made his call, all while McGee strode to and entered the elevator before taking it down, thankfully unaware of just how different things would be the next time he returned.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** See chapter 1 for the disclaimer.

* * *

**N Old Dominion Drive/September 15, 2010, 1755 Romeo**

McGee had been forced to take the alternate route to McLean by heavy traffic on the George Washington Memorial Parkway. It'd add three minutes in driving time, but that was a drowning man complaining about the rain when traffic was considered. An hour and four minutes, an hour and one, it was still almost an hour longer than the last time he'd been to McLean.

Then again, it would've still taken him longer anyways because he didn't drive like a man with a death wish, as was Gibbs's style.

The needle on the dashboard decided it'd add even more time to the drive, however, as McGee noticed that the last person to drive the sedan had neglected to stop for gas, and it was now near-empty.

McGee shook his head and sighed. "Great," he mumbled. Five minutes later, at six o'clock on the dot, he pulled the navy blue Dodge Charger under the awning of a gas station and convenience store.

Stepping out of the car and shutting the door, McGee looked around and found that he was the only person parked in front. As he filled the tank, he ran his eyes over the windows and examined the station's interior. It seemed only slightly more occupied than the parking lot: McGee could only see the clerk at the front counter and one man sitting at one of the dining tables before the windows with what appeared to be a laptop.

Eventually the loud _thunk_ of the nozzle handle assured McGee he could definitely make it to McLean. Squeezing out what last few drops he could, he returned the nozzle to the pump and made his way inside.

The store's layout was a simple, large rectangular room. To McGee's right, as he stood in the doorway, was the front desk, which was perpendicular to the front wall of the store. It had the usual small wall of candy before it, as well as various nick-knacks that could be purchased on impulse for less than a dollar (usually). Further down the counter was a metal stand under a heat lamp, on which small boxes of Hunt's Brothers pizza slices were displayed and kept warm and fresh, all the more convenient for a would-be traveler with a hankerin' for a pie.

And of course, the wall behind the counter was covered in brands of cigarettes and ads for those same cigarettes, and even cigarettes that _weren't_ there. McGee shook his head, figuring there was enough nicotine, arscnic, methane, butane, methanol, toluene, and ammonia to bring down a bull elephant in almost every individual store across the country.

"Am I the only one havin' one of those days?" he conversationally asked the clerk as he approached the counter.

"No, brother, you definitely are not," the clerk, a beer-bellied man in a Washington Redskins jersey, replied. After he relayed the price of the gas, McGee dug through his wallet and handed the clerk a couple bills. The clerk punched in the numbers, and when the cash drawer didn't pop out, a look came over his face.

"Oh, sorry," he said. "I need to go find the key, it'll only take a minute."

"Alright then," McGee said with a smile on his face that said _it happens to all of us_, and then dropped it the minute the man was turned and walking away. He watched as the clerk came out from behind the counter and walked down a hallway across from the main doors. It was a T shaped hall, with a sign saying that the right way lead to the restrooms and the manager's office, while the left way lead to the rear exit.

McGee turned around and examined the rest of the store. The back wall (or far left when entering the front door, one could say) was the wall of coolers which contained all forms of beer and soda. The vast majority of the floor was, naturally, occupied by shelves of various foods, small supplies, and (naturally) candy.

He was gazing over small the magazine rack at the counter-end of the shelf nearest the store-front when he felt a sensation of a stone settling in his stomach, and somehow knew it was because his peripheral vision had registered something familiar and dangerous. Listening to what he didn't even know was his first true Gibbsian gut feeling, he carefully and indirectly looked at the man on the laptop, and did what he felt was a good job keeping his face from showing the shock he felt.

The man sitting at the table and reading from his laptop wore a gunmetal gray t-shirt with an image of Jim Morrison over a long-sleeved white shirt and had a fuller beard than the image McGee had seen, but it was short and trimmed. His hair was also a bit shorter on top, but still neat and clean. They were minor changes, but he was still very obviously Vince Hauser.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Then, with the kind of inspiration a truly good agent has, McGee approached the magazine rack and took a housing magazine from it, as if he'd suddenly thought of something to check. Flipping through the pages and stopping at a random one, he pulled out his iPhone, dialed Gibbs, and hoped this would work.

* * *

In Vance's office, the Special Agent in Charge of the MCRT and the Director of NCIS had just narrowed down three safe houses for use by the surviving members of the force deployment committee and worked out a rotation of agents to guard them when Gibbs's phone rang.

"What'chya got McGee?" he answered after checking the caller ID.

On his end, McGee froze for the briefest moment before he finally found his voice. "Yeah Bo- uh, Bob. How's it going?"

To say Gibbs was puzzled by this question was a bit more than an understatement. "McGee? What the hell're you talking about?"

"Yeah, that's right," McGee replied, for all intents and purposes ignoring Gibbs and focusing only on what he was saying. "Hey, you remember that, uh, Thom guy from the One Club and the, um…whole Vinny Housing thing? Well, I'm looking at it right now."

Gibbs had been damn close to hanging up and straightening this out with McGee when he got back, but those words stopped him. His memory finally dredged up where One Club came from: when McGee had gone quasi-undercover to get into the club for a case. Undercover as his best-selling alter ego Thom E. Gemcity…

_Vinny Housing…_

Vance could see the moment on Gibbs's face when whatever the hell he was hearing made perfect sense.

"McGee, you can see Hauser?" the team leader asked.

"Yeah, I'm tellin' ya, I've got it clear as day. Uh, right in front of me, too," McGee responded, trying his damned hardest to appear as if he was reading the magazine, when in truth his only concerns were to get his message across, keep an eye on Hauser, and leave the SEAL none the wiser.

Gibbs leapt to his feet and made a brisk walk out of the director's office, destination: the bullpen.

"McGee, where are you?"

"'Uh, yeah, I just stopped at the BP on Old Dominion North halfway between McLean and D.C. I needed to fill up and, um, uh figured I'd grab something to eat, stretch my legs, you know. Then I'll get back on the road and should hit the District in about, uh, thirty minutes."

By this point, Gibbs was storming into the bullpen and snapping at Tony and Ziva, whose heads popped up like dogs'.

"McGee, listen carefully," he said as he whipped his drawer open to retrieve his firearm, the cell phone carefully cradled between his ear and shoulder. "Don't approach him, don't let him know you're on to him. We'll be there in ten minutes at the most, if he leaves, follow him and call me, ya got that?"

When McGee replied, Tony and Ziva were already quickly gearing up as well. "Oh, totally. Yeah, uh see you too, bye-"

Gibbs flicked the phone closed. "McGee spotted Hauser at a gas station about half an hour away, let's move!"

* * *

After pocketing his phone, McGee had set a boxed pizza slice by the register to buy when the clerk came back. He decided to spend the wait "reading" the magazine he held. Only a few seconds had passed since hanging up when Hauser pulled a carrying case onto the table, closed his laptop, and stored it in the case. After zipping it closed, he returned it to the seat from which he'd grabbed it, stood, and started walking toward the front counter.

McGee kept his face even and his eyes on the magazine, and time seemed to crawl as Hauser was mere feet from him. Then the moment passed, and Hauser continued on his way to the back hallway, likely headed for the restroom. McGee sighed in relief before returning the magazine to the stand and looking for something he'd actually enjoy skimming. After almost a minute, he'd almost decided on the newest Reader's Digest by default, wondering what that weird thrashing fabric noise he was hearing was, when he heard a distinct cry of "Oh my God!" from the back hallways. It sounded like the clerk.

McGee had just started to walk there when the clerk did indeed come scurrying from the hallway.

"Mister, mister, you gotta help!" he cried in panic. "That guy's on the floor having a seizure! There's blood comin' out of his nose and, and, I-I don't know what to do!"

While McGee's mind wondered what would cause a forty-year old man with no history of epilepsy to start seizing and bleeding from the nose (and settled on brain tumor as a likely answer), his feet rushed him to the hall where, indeed, Vince Hauser was having a seizure on the floor. Letting instinct take over, McGee knelt beside him and began to reach for his head, intending to hold it still so he didn't bash his own brains out on the floor.

He had just started to think _Wait a minute, where's the blood_ when Hauser's seizure stopped, and his palm struck McGee's throat. The agent was knocked back, all breath gone from him and his heart hammering. He'd just started to reach for his waist when he felt an impact in his chest, right between the sternum and the stomach, and everything essentially went limp.

As he struggled to breathe, unable to move in seemingly even the slightest way, Hauser regained his feet and dragged him. Next thing McGee knew, he was lying on his back on cold, dirty tiles, looking at the roof of what could only be a public men's restroom.

"Thanks," a voice that wasn't the clerk's said. Right as McGee found he could sort of twitch in a groggy, useless way, he heard the sound of dollar bills scraping together, as if counting out an amount. "Can't tell you how much I appreciate this."

"Don't mention it," the clerk replied from somewhere out of McGee's view of the lights. "Far as I'm concerned, any man who thinks he has the right to sleep with another man's wife deserves what he gets. S'funny he happened to walk in while you were here, huh?"

"Yeah," Hauser replied. "Life's funny like that."

McGee heard the door open and close, leaving him alone with Vince Hauser. He'd just started to lift his head, struggling to do so, when the ex-SEAL appeared kneeling beside him, emptying his pockets and removing his sidearm. Right when he was able to move his arms and try to stop what was happening, Hauser stood, placed the sole of his boot on McGee's forehead, and stepped down, slamming the back of his head into the floor and dazing him even further.

"Special Agent Timothy McGee, NCIS," Hauser said as he read off the badge folder in his hand. "Been awhile since I've seen that acronym." He dropped the folder to the floor, then examined McGee's sidearm. "SIG Sauer P229, right? I think it was the DAK variant your agency adopted." From his spot on the floor, McGee noted that Hauser didn't seem overconfident or antagonistic. Hell, he seemed conversational and relaxed.

That wasn't good. McGee doubted he'd be able to goad someone with such an attitude into making a mistake, but he knew he'd have to think of something. He heard Hauser remove the magazine and eject the chambered round. ".40 Smith & Wesson, huh? Figured all the ARMFEDs used nines or .45s."

McGee was able to lift his pulsing head and watched as Hauser swiftly and expertly disassembled the SIG piece by piece, first removing the slide, then the firing pin, then dumping it all in the garbage can by the door. He then dropped McGee's iPhone onto the floor and crunched it under the heel of his boot. Finally, the SEAL walked over, bent down, and lifted McGee by two fistfuls of shirt and jacket before forcing him up against a wall.

"Alright, here's what's gonna happen," Hauser said calmly. "I'm gonna ask you a question, and you're gonna tell me the answer. If you refuse to answer, I will hurt you. If you try to dodge or redirect the question, I will hurt you. If you answer with a cute comment, I. Will. Hurt you. Oh, and don't lie to me, Agent McGee. I'll know, and I don't like it when people lie to me. It'll only make me hurt you worse. Got it?"

For a moment McGee only stared at him before finding his voice. "I-I don't know what you're talking about. I was just, uh, just-"

Before he could breathe, Hauser pulled his right hand back and thrust it into McGee's stomach. The agent doubled over, his air gone again, and he never saw the second strike coming until Hauser's fist slammed into his left eye. The sheer force of it sent McGee's head whipping back into the wall, making more pain explode behind his eyes like a white light. Hauser's hands grabbed his shirt again, and the SEAL gave him a good shake to regain his attention.

"I said 'don't lie to me,' Agent McGee. I was nice and just gave you the normal treatment that time. Do it again, and it'll be worse. Now, let's get started. What does NCIS know?"

McGee groaned in pain before he was able to speak. "I'm tellin' you, I don't know what you-"

Hauser cut him off by grabbing his forehead, pulling his head forward, then slamming it back into the wall. McGee's vision almost vanished entirely, leaving only dim shadow. He felt fingers on the skin around his left eye, holding the lids open. He never even saw the middle knuckles on Hauser's right index and middle finger as they were thrust into his open eye.

The pain was so intense that McGee didn't even know he was screaming. Hauser saw it fit to stop the screaming by dragging McGee around in a circle, picking up speed as he went, and slamming his face into the cinder wall. McGee felt a distinct break somewhere around his eye, and a wet trail slither around it and down his cheek. Then, he was held against the wall again, back where he'd started.

Hauser ignored McGee's shaky and uneven breathing and held open the lids to his left eye again. The agent tried pulling back on reflex, and only found the wall. His eye hurt so much that the mere pressure from Hauser's fingers on the lids was actually making him whimper in pain and fear. That fear intensified when he saw what appeared to be black flakes of…_something_ floating around as if in water in the left half of his vision. It was like the world's scariest snowball, only the flakes were large black…leaf-looking things.

"Ocular hemorrhaging, a small laceration over the eye, and a broken orbital bone," Hauser commented as he examined the red circle around McGee's iris, the source of the small blood trail down his face, and the not-quite-right shape of his eye socket, what he could see under the already forming bruises that is. He then moved the hand down and gripped McGee's chin so he was looking directly at him. "It'll only get worse from here if you try to lie any more. Now tell me, what. Does. NCIS. Know?"

McGee tried to think of something to say, but all that came to mind was what Tony had told Gibbs after speaking to an old teammate of Hauser's: _…and, brother, he hurts people._ The meaning of those words finally hit McGee as he realized: this was not an out of control hulk like Damon Werth, this was not an everyman gone crazy. This was a trained man whose sole purpose seemed to be hurting - and even killing – others. And the pain he was in now was already so bad…

He didn't even realize he was gonna talk until he'd started, his words sprinkled with attempts to catch his breath. "We know you killed…Callaway and Stockwell. You're after…three others, because…because they left your team."

"Stockwell's murder wouldn't be your purview. Who's investigating it?"

"The FBI…we've formed a…joint investigation…just to catch you…don't you feel special?" McGee didn't even know where that last part came from, but he wished he wouldn't get anything else from there.

"Don't get cute," Hauser said simply. "I'll let that one slide 'cause you weren't answering a question. Who was that you called?"

McGee almost managed to say _Just my friend Bob_, but the instinct for survival overtook his need to stall.

"My boss…Special Agent…Leroy, Jethro, Gibbs…"

"How long until he gets here?"

This time McGee's survival instinct lost the quick draw. "Uh, thirty minutes?"

Even he knew that had been a mistake.

Hauser grabbed McGee by the back of his neck and ran him into the nearest mirror. His head felt like a fireworks show as he fell to his knees, his face hovering over the sink as shards of glass that were slow to break fell around him, leaving small cuts or gashes on the back of his neck and right ear. He could see blood drops falling into the sink from his face, no doubt from more lacerations.

"Try again, Agent McGee. How long until Gibbs gets here?"

This time instinct clearly came ahead.

"Ten minutes."

Hauser nodded as he mulled this over and gauged how long he had to get as much info as possible out of his new intel source. "Do you know who my other three targets are?"

McGee thought for a minute on how best to answer this. Hauser had just raised his hand to speed him up when he finally answered.

"Hanson…Margott…and Stan Merdetzky."

"Stan? You know his first name?"

McGee's eyes opened wide as he realized his mistake. _Oh _crap.

"What else do you know about him?" Hauser asked, now leaning close to McGee.

The agent knew he'd been busted, that if he didn't do something he was gonna give information to a calculating killer and lead him right to his next victim. His screw up was gonna get another man killed…

"N-Nothing," he finally managed to squeeze out, but even he could hear how much of a lie it was. But he didn't care. He pushed on, hoping that his bravado wouldn't break before Gibbs showed up…or he was beaten to death. He'd take either one over helping this man. "I don't know anything about Stan Merde-"

Hauser grabbed McGee by the back of the neck, brought his head up, and slammed it into the inner edge of the porcelain sink. McGee's ears rang from the impact, and before the ringing subsided even a little, Hauser delivered a vicious punch to the back of his head. The force followed through and sent McGee's face and forehead breaking through the outer lip of the sink, leaving McGee sprawled on the floor in shards of porcelain and blood. In his confused haze of pain, an odd thought came at him out of nowhere: _I had a dream like this once_.

Before he could even wonder when he'd had a dream like this, McGee found himself being held up by Hauser's fists again, and only now did the SEAL seem frustrated.

"Agent McGee, I've only known you for two, maybe three minutes, and I already know everything I need to know about you: you're a horrible liar in every way."

Hauser's knee thrust out and collided with McGee's, bending it in a way it wasn't designed to be bent. His scream drowned out the sound of his kneecap dislocating and then popping back into place.

"First I saw when you recognized me and tried to cover it up. If you'd been even another step to the side out of my peripheral vision, I wouldn't have even seen it. Then you made that 'discrete' call, and I heard your horrible lying in action. Newsflash: the SpEd School Idiot's bastard child could figure out Vinny Housing means Vince Hauser."

The next knee shot went into McGee's side, and it was followed by three right hands. Somewhere, three ribs broke and left McGee in utter agony to breathe.

"Now you're lying to protect a bunch of selfish rear-echelon-mother-fuckers who decided that a title in front of their name was more important than the lives of good men who actually had the balls to put on a pair of combat boots and stay in The Sand."

Hauser didn't even hesitate before delivering a strong headbutt to the damaged left eye area of McGee's face, sprawling him onto his back. As the agent lay on the floor, sputtering in pain, Hauser came to stand beside his head. He then knelt down, pushing his knee into McGee's throat.

"And I don't care if I have to shove you into my trunk and take you to a mechanic's garage, break in, and take a soldering iron to your ball sack. _I. Will. Find them_. Now tell me: where does Merdetzky live?"

McGee could only try to catch his breath for a few moments before he could finally speak again, his voice quiet and slow.

"McLean…he lives in McLean…"

"You know the address?"

"…Yes…"

"And the others'?"

"…No…"

Hauser studied him for a moment before nodding. "Can you find out?" he asked.

McGee didn't answer, apparently deciding to use his rights under the Fifth Amendment. Hauser applied a bit of pressure with his knee until the agent under him started flailing his arms and weakly slapping Hauser's thigh. When he started making choking noises for about three seconds, Hauser let off the pressure, allowing McGee to gasp and swallow wondrous oxygen.

"…Yes!" McGee answer once his breathing went from panicked to labored. "Yes I can find them!"

"What do you need?"

"…A computer…and an internet connection…"

Hauser nodded before standing. "Don't go anywhere," he said before opening the door and stepping out, letting it close behind him. Minutes seemed to last hours, and then finally Hauser returned, with his laptop case slung over his shoulders, and lifted McGee, putting one arm over his shoulder and using his left arm to hold McGee around the waist.

"Come on," he said as they staggered out the door, across the hall, and out the door marked by the glowing red EXIT sign. "We're goin' for a ride."

The sky was now showing tints of orange in its vast blue blanket. McGee wasn't paying much attention to it or anything else, though, he was only focused on breathing and the floating black flakes. He heard a door opening, and then he was lowered into the passenger seat of a small car. It was hell on his ribs, and he was moaning in pain by the time Hauser shut the door. Seconds later, he appeared in the driver's seat, started the car, and pulled out into the road.

Two minutes and thirteen seconds after they left, a navy blue Dodge Charger pulled into the front parking lot, its three occupants hoping to end this. They would be sorely disappointed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** See chapter 1 for the disclaimer.

* * *

**BP Gas Station and Convenience Store, N Old Dominion Dr/September 15, 2010, 1807 Romeo**

McGee hadn't called by the time Gibbs pulled the Charger into the smaller parking lot behind the gas station where one car, likely the clerk's, was parked. That told him that McGee hadn't needed to follow Hauser, because he was still there. The reason Gibbs was parking in the back was to not spook him: it didn't take a genius to figure that one man in a suit in a Charger plus two men and a woman in suits in a Charger equals feds lookin' for a bust.

After parking, they stepped out of the car.

"Tony, you watch the back, make sure he doesn't make it out if he tries to run," Gibbs ordered.

"Do you think a trained killer of his scale would try to run, Gibbs?" Ziva asked as the two of them walked around the corner and continued along the building's side.

"If he was smart and he knew he couldn't take three of us, yeah."

"And if he _could_ take the three of us?"

Gibbs shrugged as they rounded the front corner and approached the door. "Good for him."

The bell over the door jingled as they entered, Ziva splitting off to the side and walking along the front windows, while Gibbs simply walked forward.

"Hello there," the clerk said from Gibbs's right. Gibbs simply grunted in response, his eyes scanning the aisles. Before long, he was standing before the hallways leading to the restrooms when Ziva regrouped.

"They're not here," she said, her voice not showing the concern in her eyes.

"Get DiNozzo in here, search the back," he instructed before turning to the clerk, who was now working his way around the counter to see what the fuss was about. "Sir," Gibbs grabbed his attention before showing his badge and ID. "We're looking for two men who were here about ten minutes ago. One's about this tall, kinda skinny, came in the Charger? Have you seen them?"

"Yeah, why?"

Before Gibbs could continue, his phone rang. Holding up one finger, he retrieved it.

"Gibbs."

"Jethro, we've got the info on the other committee members," Fornell said from where he stood in the bullpen over the shoulder of his loaned specialist. "I called McGee but he's not answering, and now you guys are out 'n' about. There something goin' on I should know about?"

"Yeah, and you'll know about it when we get ba-"

"Boss!" Tony's call grabbed his attention. He looked to the hallways just as Tony emerged. "We need a forensics van up here. We've got a crime scene."

Gibbs only looked at him for a moment, ignoring Fornell's calls from the phone. He finally returned it to his ear and simply said, "Tobias. Get up here now."

* * *

**Thirty-two minutes later**

Gibbs's eyes trailed over the bathroom from where he stood. It was a single large square room with one urinal, one stall, and one sink. From his spot in the corner opposite the door, he could see all the important things. Traces of blood could be seen to the right of the door, but the real mess was on the floor and in the broken sink. It didn't look close to fatal amounts, or even dangerous amounts, but it certainly meant that whoever it belonged to had been beaten badly.

Gibbs reviewed the facts as Ziva and an FBI agent continued to process the scene, while Tony had the task of questioning the clerk: McGee had called and covertly alerted him that he had eyes on Vince Hauser. Gibbs instructed him to not approach Hauser, keep an eye on him, and follow Hauser if he went on the move, calling Gibbs if he did so. McGee was a damn good agent and knew how to follow someone without being noticed (not as well as the rest of the team, true, but he could handle himself just fine), and he certainly knew how to follow instructions. If he had had to follow Hauser, he would've called.

The fact that he didn't, in addition to the fact that McGee's Charger was still at the gas pump, told Gibbs that he hadn't followed Hauser anywhere. Yet neither man was here, nor was there a third car for Hauser to have used.

And then of course, there was the blood that the nameless FBI agent was in the process of photographing, the broken mirror, and the broken sink. Signs of a struggle.

Gibbs let out a sigh at the obvious answer, the one he'd been hoping to somehow make untrue by pushing it away, but wants don't change the facts: McGee had been made and then nabbed.

The sound of brisk footsteps was followed by Tony entering the room, walking around a squatted Ziva as she took photographs of her own of the various spatters on the floor. When he stopped beside Gibbs, the furious sigh he released from his nose matched the equally furious look on his face. It made Gibbs think of a boiler letting off pressure in hopes of not blowing its stack.

"No cameras, Boss," he said, his livid eyes jumping from spatter to spatter to sink to spatter. "They're in the process of upgrading the systems, so the old ones are basically just there for show until the new ones arrive. I showed the clerk the pictures, and he confirms that Hauser and McGee had both been here."

"Did he know what happened?"

"Know? I'm havin' him hauled in as an _accomplice_," Tony lowered his head and ran a hand through his hair with another sigh. Letting off just that much more pressure. He raised his head and continued, this time looking at Gibbs. "When McGee tried to pay for his gas, the clerk had to get the register key from the back because it was busted. He was just comin' out of the office when he bumped into Hauser, who stopped him and fed him this story about McGee being some guy who slept with his wife and broke up their marriage. He paid the clerk six hundred dollars to give them some alone time for a 'chat' and make sure nobody walked in on 'em."

Gibbs felt his own anger rise as well, but only set his jaw and nodded his head. The two only stared at the scene for a moment longer before Tony broke the ominous quiet. "What's your gut tellin' ya Boss?"

"Nothin' good," Gibbs replied. "This was an ambush. That means Hauser somehow knew McGee was onto him. Question is, what exactly did he to him."

"FLETC teaches Defensive Tactics and Ground Fighting Tactics," Ziva said just before flashing another photograph. "But Hauser's training as a standard SEAL would have negated that. Add to that his training in DEVGRU and whatever he picked up along the way over fifteen years of covert operations and-"

"We _get_ it, Agent David," Tony cut her off. "Hauser was able to do whatever he wanted."

"I think he probably just beat your guy and then shoved him in his trunk to dump somewhere," the FBI agent said before flashing another photograph of his own. He figured that if he finally said what they were all very carefully _not_ saying, they would finally be faced with the reality of the situation and put their full attention where it needed to be: solving the case and catching the bad guy, rather than putting effort in some hopeless cause to find someone who was likely a goner. When he turned and looked at them though, he did not see the faces of three agents accepting the painful truth, and then moving on like professionals.

He saw three sets of eyes glaring at him with such _seething_, _violent_, and _furious rage_ that he literally lost all sensation and feeling in every part of him below his hairline. His mind was a total and numbed blank rock, but his instinct for survival made him stand and leave, not one moment too soon.

Eventually the three NCIS agents calmed down enough to breathe normally. After another few moments of the ominous quiet, Gibbs was able to get back to the matter at hand.

"Ziva," he said, grabbing the woman's attention from the mirror shards on the floor. "If you were wanted for two murders you actually committed, knew a plainclothes cop was on to you, and ambushed him, what would you do to him?"

Ziva looked off into space and furrowed her brow as she thought it over, then looked back to Gibbs.

"I would try to get information out of him," she said. "Find out how he became 'on to me' and anything else he knew about my case."

"Alright, so let's imagine that happened here. What does McGee know?"

"Everything we know," Tony said. "Well, except where Colonel Hanson and Eaves Margott live, he only knew-"

He froze, and like a brick wall, it hit all three of them.

"McGee knows where one of his targets lives,"

"Sonuva_bit_-" Tony intoned, the end of his intonement drowned out by Gibbs.

"_Tobias!"_ he yelled, rushing out into the main store where Fornell was updating his own director by phone.

Fornell excused himself quickly and hung up. "Whadduya got Jethro?"

"Tobias, we need men at Stan Merdetzky's house _now_," Gibbs said as he walked past Fornell, who gave chase to hear what he was being told. "We're thinkin' Hauser's using McGee as some kinda GPS to find his targets' homes. Get some people out to Hanson and Margott's too, just in case we can't get him at Merdetzky's."

"McGee only knows where Merdetzky lives, how can he lead him to Hanson and Margott?" Fornell asked his friend, but they both knew the real question: _Wouldn't he outlive his usefulness?_

Gibbs stopped and thought about it for a moment. "If he tortured McGee and found out he specializes in computers, he might use him to find out."

"Shit," Fornell mumbled. "Alright, I'm on it."

With that the two men split, Gibbs heading for his Charger with Tony and Ziva right behind him. The doors weren't even closed before the tires screeched out onto N Old Dominion.

* * *

**Outskirts of McLean, Virginia/September 15, 2010, 1842 Romeo**

The orange and purple sky cast the alley on the outer edge of the main urban area of McLean in utter shadow. This made it perfect for the gray 1998 BMW 7 Series to pull into and cut its engine. In the driver's seat, Vince Hauser unbuckled his seatbelt, reached into the back seat, and brought a bag into his lap. Rummaging through it, he brought out, of all things, a package of baby wipes and handed it to McGee. The agent looked at it for a moment before taking it, his movements sluggish from pain and exhaustion.

"Clean yourself up," Hauser instructed, motioning towards McGee's bloody and lacerated face. "I'll get those cuts closed up, then we can get on to business." A dull _thunk_ signaled the trunk opening before Hauser stepped out and closed the door. While the SEAL went to the back and shuffled through the trunk, though, McGee made no move to simply clean himself up. Dropping the package into the floor well, he instead bent over, moaning in pain as his broken ribs protested greatly, and pulled up one of his pants legs. There was an ankle sheathe, and in it was a small knife.

_Rule Nine_, he thought. He drew the knife and righted himself as Hauser shook the car with the closing trunk. McGee had to close his eyes and grit his teeth, his ribs protesting the rising as much as the bending, to keep from moaning louder than he was. That moan had a share of worry, too, as the black flakes in his vision were a constant reminder that something wasn't right. With his eyes closed, he didn't have to focus on them.

The door opened beside him, and McGee opened his eyes and turned his head to see what Hauser had. It was a first aid kit, a large red bag weighed down by supplies. Hauser squatted down to McGee's level, and had just opened his mouth to say something when McGee struck with the knife.

Either McGee's eye was affecting his aim, Hauser simply had better reflexes, or it was a mixture of both. No matter the cause, the results remained the same: Hauser dropped the bag and threw himself to his left, not fast enough to completely dodge the blade though. Hot pain sliced into his side like, well, a knife as the blade punctured his shirts and skin to leave a gash just under his rib cage. McGee didn't see the wound, only Hauser falling to the ground. McGee saw Hauser already rising, and knew his time and opportunity to press the advantage were running out. He moved to get out of the car and go on the offensive.

Intense pain, however, has a tendency to make one sluggish. He'd barely gotten his good leg out of the door when Hauser locked a hand around his right wrist, the one which didn't hold the knife, and yanked as hard as he could. McGee's position on the seat made his balance weak to begin with, and the sudden pull almost brought him out of the car. Hauser's left elbow colliding with his broken orbital bone ended whatever fight he'd had, and he limply fell to the ground.

The SEAL picked up the knife McGee had dropped, examined it, and chuckled, shaking his head as he threw it toward a dumpster a few feet away.

"Never seen a fed who carried a knife before," he said, looking and picking at the cut in his shirt. Blood covered the cloth around the wound, which itself appeared black as night in the dim alley. "Just full of surprises, Agent McGee, and you still even try to do something about it. I like that."

McGee then felt hands on his jacket as he was lifted up and plopped back into the passenger seat, this time facing the side so his feet were resting on the ground. As he leaned sideways against the seatback in pain, Hauser picked the baby wipes off the floor well and dropped them into his lap.

"I really suggest you clean yourself up, Agent McGee, 'cause if I have to do it myself, I won't be gentle," Hauser said, circling his hand around the area of his left eye as he did so.

McGee closed his eyes for a few moments before opening them, opening the wipes package, and extracting a wipe for use. As he tenderly cleaned what blood and dirt he knew was on his face, he looked to see Hauser was doing a bit of first aid of his own. He'd removed his Jim Morrison shirt and was holding a side of his white undershirt up as he cleaned the wound in preparation for suturing. What caught McGee's eye, however, was the shoulder harness-like rig Hauser wore under his overshirt. It looked like a shoulder holster, only he'd removed the holster itself. There also seemed to be a thin belt-like strap around his torso below his rib cage.

"Here's how this is gonna go down," Hauser said, his eyes never leaving the wound he was working on. "You're gonna tell me how to get to Merdetzky's place, I'll head out there and take care of him, then I'm takin' you to a place where you can get that computer. Now, I can close your wounds and clean 'em, but you'll still look like shit. On the off-chance we run into someone who brings it up, here's our story: you're an old friend of mine with a drinking problem. You've been sober for seven months, but you just couldn't hack it without the booze and so you've fallen off the wagon. In your first bout of drunkensess in so long, you got into a fight and called me to help you out. We've gotten you cleaned up at the hospital, and we're on our way back to my place for you to sleep it all off, got it?"

"Rule Seven…" was all McGee said in reply.

"What?" Hauser asked, this time looking at the battered agent.

"My boss has a list of rules he lives by…" McGee said weakly as he continued to clean what he could. "Rule Seven is 'always be specific when you lie.'"

"Hm," Hauser grunted in response before returning his attention to his wound. "What other rules does he have?"

McGee thought for a minute, wondering why he was having this conversation with a man who'd so brutally trashed his well-being. _Better he be chatting with me than stomping my eye out_, he decided.

"Rule Nine…'always carry a knife.'"

Hauser looked up again, then to the dumpster down the alley, then back to McGee. He chuckled and shook his head again before going back to his suturing.

"Think I'd like him," he noted. "Sounds like a SEAL to me."

"Marine," McGee corrected him. "Scout sniper for fifteen years."

"Why'd he stop?"

McGee thought his answer over. "Knee injury in the Gulf."

Hauser heard something in his voice that made him stop and study the agent. "That's not the full story, is it?" he asked.

"No…but the rest isn't your business."

Hauser studied him for a moment longer before his eyes went down and he nodded his head. "Fair enough," he said before returning to his suturing. The time passed between them in silence until finally Hauser had his wound closed and bandaged before standing, opening the rear passenger door, and leaning in to rummage through his bag. As he did, McGee watched him and saw the purpose of the shoulder harness.

It was, indeed, a shoulder holster with the holster removed. He'd also added a vertical strap going down his back where it perpendicularly met with the horizontal strap that went around his waist. These two right angles made a snug spot for a horizontally mounted handgun holster, which held whatever .45 of choice he used. It wasn't quite holstered at the small of his back, but it was close enough to count in horseshoes. Hauser then stood with another gunmetal grey t-shirt in his hands, this one adorned with the four symbols from the fourth Led Zeppelin album. He slipped it on over his head, concealing his wound, the bloody gash in his undershirt, and the .45.

"Alright Agent McGee," Hauser said as he turned to the seated and battered agent. "Before we get started, I wanna make something particularly clear. I like that you've got a little fight in you, but don't do it anymore. You know what I am, and what I'm capable of, and you're just a discount G-Man who's probably never even heard of Krav Maga, let alone seen it in action. You are an underdog in every sense of the word, and you cannot fight me and win. So stop trying, and everything'll go a lot smoother, got it?"

Whether he actually expected an answer or not, McGee didn't know, and he didn't give him one. Hauser finally just nodded, apparently taking his silence as an answer in itself. With that done, he put on a new set of gloves and grabbed various things from the first-aid kit.

"This might sting a little."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: **I wanted to say thanks for the reviews I've gotten, and encourage others to leave some as well. I appreciate all forms of constructive criticism, and honestly I'm aware of more than a few mistakes in this story. I just never seem to have the patience to find 'em, so if you help I can fix 'em sooner. Also I just like hearing what others think of my work, but don't we all?

**Disclaimer:** See chapter 1 for the disclaimer.

* * *

**N Old Dominion/September 15, 2010, 1857 Romeo**

"_Oh Gibbs! This is terrible! You've _got_ to find Timmy!"_

"Abby," Gibbs tried to gain the attention of the panicking forensics scientist. One hand held his cell phone to his ear, and the other steered his dangerous blur of a Charger through whatever traffic didn't dodge out of his way in a panic. He was mere minutes from McLean, and he had one helluva deadline.

"_I mean, God knows what a SEAL can do to someone like Timmy! I mean, he can handle himself, but this is a SEAL, Gibbs! A trained SEAL who's done covert ops for _fifteen years_!"_

"Abby," Gibbs growled, not at Abby, but at the sight before him: a traffic jam caused by a t-bone accident. The tires on the Charger screeched, DiNozzo and Ziva held on for dear life, and Gibbs hoped for the best as the vehicle whipped through other lanes, causing cars to skid to a halt in panic, before heading up an exit to take the long way into McLean. He didn't want the long way at all, but it seemed to be the only way.

"_Think of all the world leaders, terrorist cell leaders, and persons of interest he's assassinated or killed, or _tortured for information_! I mean, those guys were bad guys, hopefully, but that just means he has the capability to-"_

"_Abby!_" Gibbs shouted, and this time she shut up. Now that he had her attention, his reassuring voice took over. "We're on it, Abby, all three of us. We're gonna get him back. But if we don't get him back here, we need to be ready in case he uses McGee to try and find Hanson and Margott. I need you to keep an eye on increased searches for them, and attempts to locate them. Then I need you to trace them, and let us know where they're comin' from. Can you do that?"

For a moment, there was silence, then, _"Yeah. Yeah, I can do that, I _will_ do that, and then we'll get Timmy back and take this guy down, and everything'll come out fine."_

"Atta girl," Gibbs said. "Call me when ya got something."

As the sky turned blacker and blacker above them, the MCRT rushed to the aid of one of their own.

* * *

**Churchill Road, McLean, VA/September 15, 2010, 1919 Romeo**

Vince Hauser didn't like these circumstances. When he'd hit Stockwell and Callaway, he'd scouted out their homes for days beforehand and developed a plan. True, in Callaway's case he'd been forced to abandon the plan and go loud, but he'd known what to expect of the home. This time, and for the next three hits, though, he wouldn't know squat beforehand.

It seemed to be an act of balance. He had a hostage with whom he could find his targets and, if necessary, barter with or even use as a distraction, but it came at the cost of sufficient pre-planning. Agent McGee also slowed him down, not to mention seemed intent on foiling him. He'd have to be careful if things went down badly.

As he mulled this over, he was looking to his left, across the street. A few hundred feet ahead was a left-hand, right-angle turn onto Elizabeth Drive, where CIA senior official Stan Merdetzky slept his nights in peace. Hauser set his jaw as he thought of the injustice of that, then looked to Agent McGee, who had his head leaned back and his eyes closed. If he had to guess, Hauser ventured that McGee's left eye would be even more swollen than it already was before too long, to the point when he wouldn't even be able to open it.

_Doesn't get treated soon, he might not be able to even use it anymore,_ Hauser reflected. _All the more incentive for him to help me and get this over with faster._

Hauser wanted to wait. It was literally two – now three – minutes since sunset, and the night was fresh and young. People were returning home from work, and if he made his move now he'd most likely be seen. If someone got suspicious and called the cops that would put even more pressure to get it done. They'd likely continue to watch him as they waited for the police to arrive, and so when they finally did and missed him by a few minutes, the witness would have a car and maybe even license-plate number to give.

But Hauser had learned a lot in his twenty-years in SOCOM. One of those things was to listen to his gut, and right now his gut was telling him that he'd need to move soon. In fact…yeah, now was the right time.

"Alright Agent McGee, listen up," Hauser said. McGee's head lolled to the side and his eyes cracked open, showing he was listening. "I'll be right back. Don't try to go anywhere, you won't get far."

With that, he opened the door, stepped out, and shut the door before walking across the street. He didn't lock the car with the black fob on the key-chain; that would've caused noise he didn't want. Besides, McGee would've simply had to push the unlock button, making the gesture pointless.

A breeze came as he turned onto the east side of the north-south-bound Elizabeth Drive. As he approached the third house on the left, the one with the address McGee had provided, he considered the possible outcomes. He was certain McGee hadn't lied, but if he'd somehow managed it, then he was walking into the wrong house, and all he'd do is show his face to someone who didn't need to see it. If that was the case, then he'd just have to put 'em down. He couldn't simply time them up and leave them: there was a risk that a friend or other somesuch might show up, free them, and then he'd have a sketch of his face out in the dashboard computer of every cop in Virginia, and maybe D.C. Alternatively, there was a chance no one would come along for days, and the poor schmuck would die from dehydration. A .45 to the brainpan was a favor compared to that.

"_Come on Slick," Dasher wheezed. "Just a sip."_

"_I told ya Dasher," Hauser replied weakly. Their progress was slow, with Dasher hanging off his side and their only living target being dragged behind them on a rope around his wrists. And it was just so damn _hot._ "We don't have a sip."_

A favor. Hell yeah it was.

Picking up his pace, Hauser scanned all the houses he could see. Only a few had lights on, and he couldn't see any movement or shadows in 'em. After checking his back, he hooked a left along the side of Merdetzky's front lawn, in the shadows of a fence covered in vines. He reached a wooden gate, about six feet tall, that lead into the back yard. After making sure there was no one in the windows of the house who could see him, he leapt up, caught the edge, and hauled himself over quietly.

The lights were on, and a quick test of the doorknob showed the backdoor was unlocked. Leaving it closed, Hauser crouched down and pulled up the left leg of his jeans, revealing a sheath of his own just above his boot. But it had no knife. Instead, it held a Blackside-45 suppressor. After fixing his jeans leg, he stood, reached under the back of his shirt with his right hand, and withdrew his USP Tactical. A few quick screws, and the suppressor was firmly fixed to the barrel.

The door didn't even creak as he opened it, quieter than a mouse, and stalked through the halls of the small, humble home. He held his USP ahead of him, ready to hold up his target the moment he saw him. His footsteps were light and slow, rolling on the balls of his feet to almost entirely eliminate noise. He peered around a corner and saw an older man working at something on a counter in the kitchen. The man then turned and walked to the side, his gaze never nearing the corner Hauser was peering around. Quickly and quietly, Hauser followed him, only stopping at the doorway to the living room. There the man sat with his back mostly to him while enjoying a sandwich, the kind an everyman would rather get by going to a restaurant.

The older man was just about to take another bite when he heard a click behind him. He'd never heard a real gun in his life, but the hairs standing on the back of his neck didn't need much convincing.

"You alone?" a voice asked from behind.

For a moment, the older man didn't answer. Then Hauser pushed the suppressor into the crook where his spine and skull met and applied a small bit of pressure.

"Are. You. Alone?"

"Yes," the man said.

"Put the sandwich down," Hauser instructed, and the man did so. "Now, put your hands up, stand, and turn around." The man slowly did so, his mind racing to figure who could be responsible for this. When he was standing and facing the intruder, Hauser asked the million dollar question: "What's your name?"

The man's face registered confusion for a moment before he found his voice again. "Stan. My name's Stan."

"Stan what?"

"…Mer-Merdetzky. Stan Merdetzky. Wh-What do you wa-"

In less than a second, Hauser pulled the trigger three times, with only the slightest pause between the second and third shot as he adjusted his aim. The suppressor turned the firecracker-like pops of the .45s into what sounded like someone flicking a piece of paper with their finger really hard. The first two shots impacted with his sternum, mere millimeters apart. The third shot blossomed a black hole in the middle of his forehead, and a fine red mist with small clumps tainted the air before splattering on the knee-high table behind Merdetzky, but those spatters were soon hidden by his falling body.

When the body hit the table, it gave a twitch, and then was still. Hauser looked at it for a moment, then turned and left.

* * *

McGee sat in the BMW and stewed, utterly ashamed of himself.

_Gibbs wouldn't have given in_, he thought. _Neither would Tony, and especially not Ziva. They would've fought back at the gas station. They would've forced him off long enough until the rest of the team showed up. And what did you do? You squealed like a pig._

"My eye hurts," he said to himself, unaware he was even doing so. "My eye hurts, my head hurts, my side hurts, my knee hurts…God, everything hurts."

_That wouldn't have stopped Tony or Ziva,_ the inner voice countered. _And it _damn_ sure wouldn't have stopped Gibbs._

"Well I'm not Tony or Ziva," he replied. "And I damn sure aren't Gibbs."

His mind then wandered to Stan Merdetzky and the information McGee had found on him during his info search of the committee.

_He's a grandfather, you know. His grandson's name is Todd, and he's never missed a single birthday._

McGee didn't fight the tears, the tears for the poor man he didn't even know. What Merdetzky did was wrong, but it didn't warrant death. None of them deserved to die. Hauser's team, Stockwell, Callaway, and now soon Merdetzky. So much undeserving death, and he was caught up in the middle of it all now.

_It's not too late. You can still make a difference. You can _save the last two.

"How? How can I do that?" he asked himself.

_Konk konk konk_

McGee jumped and looked to the window, where the young man who had knocked stood.

"Hey you alright man?" he asked, his voice muffled but audible.

_That's how_.

McGee didn't even think as he opened the door, which the man stood aside to allow open. "You've gotta help me," he said. "This man's kidnapped me, and he's killing people. He beat me for information, he's _gonna kill more people._ You gotta help me, I-"

The young man showed shock at this, "Whoa, what?"

"He's after people, people I know how to find, and he's killing them and he, you, you gotta help me-"

The young man stood, his head whipping around in confusion. He then looked back at McGee for a moment, then seemed to calm down and nod. "Alright, alright, uh, oh Christ, uh, come on, let's get you outta here before he gets back." He lifted McGee out of the car, hanging from his side. When he was on their feet, they started heading east, away from Elizabeth Drive. They hurried as fast as McGee's bum leg could go, and the agent began to actually feel the hope of escape.

Then they heard the sound of running footsteps behind them.

They both looked over their inner shoulders as they tried to keep going, but it was no use. Vince Hauser was already on them, his right hand drawn back as if he were Bruce Willis about to throw a punch at the camera. But in his hand was his USP, the suppressor still attached. Then he threw his fist forward, as if he _were_ throwing a Hollywood punch, or planning to stab the man helping McGee with his suppressor.

The instant the end of the suppressor contacted the corner of the man's forehead by his hairline, Hauser pulled the trigger. The _snap_ of the shot was perfectly synced the sounds of the back of his skull exploding outward, and its contents splattering on the sidewalk. With a heavy _thump_, McGee and the dead man hit the ground, Hauser running by a few steps, carried by his momentum. He immediately stopped, unscrewing his suppressor as he looked around for witnesses. He dropped the suppressor into his pocket, holstered his USP, and lifted McGee off the ground into the same position his would-be rescuer had him.

"I hope you learn the lesson here, Agent McGee," Hauser said as he hurried back to the car, as fast as he could. McGee wasn't listening though, his mind lost in the crushing weight of what could only be brain matter in his hair. Finally, Hauser got him back in the seat and leaned in with this to say: "Don't get people involved. It only gets them killed when they don't need to be."

The door closed, McGee staring ahead as if in a comatose state as Hauser took his spot in the driver's seat. The BMW sprung to life, pulled out, and drove west on Churchill Road, leaving the two bodies behind.

For three seconds, the neighborhood was utterly silent. Then, the sound of an approaching motor broke the silence, as if someone were turning the volume of a racing movie up slowly. Then, seven seconds after the BMW had driven off, the navy blue Dodge Charger zoomed around the corner of Capitol View Drive onto Elizabeth Drive, heading north before screeching to a stop before the home of Stan Merdetzky. The doors burst open, and Gibbs, Tony, and Ziva leapt out.

"Tony, get the back, move move!" Gibbs ordered as he and Ziva ran for the front door, Tony zipping to the side. As Gibbs and Ziva took position on opposite sides of the door, Gibbs knocked as loudly as he could.

"Mr. Merdetzky! NCIS, open up!" He waited, and there was only silence. "Mr. Merdetzky?"

"_Boss,_" Tony's voice came through Gibbs's earwig. _"Back door's open, I'm movin' in."_

Gibbs nodded at Ziva, as they both drew their SIGs. Ziva lashed her leg out and kicked the door open as the two moved in.

"Clear!" Ziva called.

"Clear!" Gibbs echoed.

"Boss!" Tony's voice came from the living room. "In here!"

Gibbs and Ziva made their way to the living room, and there Tony stood by the main coffee table. There lay the still bleeding body of Stan Merdetzky, surrounded by the stink of death and its unpleasant releases.

They could only stare as they realized how close they truly were.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** See chapter 1 for the disclaimer.

* * *

**Rented Apartment of "Jay Massani," Washington, D.C./September 15, 2010, 2014 Romeo**

It was a little under ten minutes short of an hour since the death of Stan Merdetzky when the door of a small, indistinct apartment opened, and Vince Hauser carried Timothy McGee in. After shutting the door with his foot, the SEAL carried the NCIS agent to a chair at a small table and set him down in it. McGee was taking in the bland, undecorated, and unpersonalized look of the place when Hauser set the black carrying bag from the BP on the table. He zipped it open and removed his laptop from it, opening it and placing it before McGee. It was on, and the battery indicator was blinking its death rattle. McGee watched as Hauser pulled out a chord, plugged one end into the side of the laptop, and walked to an outlet where he plugged the other end.

The laptop's screen suddenly became brighter, and the battery indicator showed its charging animation.

"Alright Agent McGee," Hauser said before turning and walking into the kitchen. The set-up was similar to McGee's apartment, only the kitchen counter that separated the living room from said kitchen had a row of cabinets over it, creating a long rectangular frame/window/thing to see through. "You start looking for info on Hanson and Margott, I'll fix us up some refreshments." The sound of a pot being removed from a cupboard rattled, and McGee could see Hauser stand to retrieve to a red and white can from an upper cupboard. The can was more white than red, so he figured it'd be a Campbell's soup of some kind.

McGee looked to the screen before him and simply sat there. He didn't want to do this. Doing this would give Hauser everything he needed to find and kill two men. Men who deserved some kind of punishment, sure, but not to die. For a moment, McGee steeled himself for the consequences of his choice: he wouldn't do it. He didn't care how bad Hauser beat him, Timothy McGee was not going to help him kill two men…two _more_ men.

But then a thought hit him. And when it did, McGee knew he had a chance. So he set his fingers to work, "searching" for information as a pretense for actually delivering it.

* * *

**NCIS Headquarters, Washington, D.C./September 15, 2010, 2018 Romeo**

In the basement forensics lab of the NCIS Headquarters, Abby Scuito sat at her desk in the office area between her main lab and her firearms testing chamber. She was attempting to focus on her report for her findings in the evidence secured at the BP where McGee had been attacked. The key word being "attempting," as she was far too worried to effectively do something as mundane as paperwork.

With a sigh, she stood and walked to the small area behind her desk where she kept personal things. From this collection of personal things, she lifted Bert the Hippo, her favorite stuffed animal, and practically attempted to squeeze it to death with the hug she gave it. The look on her face didn't even twitch in anything resembling a smile, grin, or even smirk at the trademark noise Bert made.

"Oh, Timmy," she mumbled. "You've gotta be okay…you've just gotta be…oh please, just send me a sign that you are. Anything, please."

It's been said that God works in mysterious ways, and whether that's the case or life is just much more clichéd and melodramatic than we give it credit for, her workstation gave an alerting tone. Abby's head jerked upright, and she only stood there for a moment before approaching it. She'd hoped it was the program she had set up to watch for increased searches for Hanson and Margott, but it wasn't. It was just an e-mail from….

Abby stared at the screen for a moment before opening it and reading the e-mail. It was an IP address. Her face never changed as she found the location of said address, and she knew what it meant.

"That's my geek!" she cheered, not even noticing the tears in her eyes.

* * *

**Merdetzky Crime Scene, McLean, Virginia/September 15, 2010, 2021 Romeo**

"_Hanson's fine, Boss,"_ Gibbs heard from Tony over the phone. _"I'm here with the FBI guys, we'll be sure to keep any eye out."_

"Call me if something happens," Gibbs replied before closing his phone. He then turned his attention to Fornell. "That body up the street turn up anything?"

"No," Fornell replied, his own eyes watching the processing of the scene. "The entry wound has characteristics of a contact wound, and the closest thing anyone reported to a gunshot was some loud snapping noise they heard while watching TV. Figured it was a kid pulling off a branch."

Gibbs nodded. "He was using a suppressor."

"Bingo."

Gibbs thought for a moment before saying, "Ziva,"

"Yes Gibbs?" the not-really-a-probie asked as she looked up from her sketching.

"Why drop someone randomly on the street like that, risk drawing attention to himself?"

Ziva once again put on her professional killer hat (one she much rather preferred to leave in the closet) and thought it over.

"Maybe he was _getting rid_ of attention? Perhaps….oh, what was his name-"

"Chilton," Fornell supplied.

"Yes, thank you. Perhaps Chilton saw something he shouldn't have?"

"What would he see from all the way up the street?" Fornell asked.

"Hauser's car, maybe? If he has McGee bound in the trunk and he was banging on it, Chilton may have come to investigate, and Hauser eliminated him so as to not take any chances."

Gibbs's phone ringing brought the conversation to a halt. "Gibbs."

"_Gibbs, Gibbs, Gibbs!"_ Abby's excited voice screamed through the phone, making Gibbs hold it away from his ear for a moment. _"I got something, I found Timmy!"_

Gibbs snapped at Ziva and made a "come on" gesture as he turned and started walking out of the house. "Where?"

"_He sent me an e-mail, Gibbs! All it had was the IP address, but I traced and confirmed it!"_

After Abby read off the address, Gibbs hung up. When he and Ziva reached the Charger, he made her pause in confusion when he went around the hood to the passenger side.

"Gibbs?"

"You're driving, let's go."

That was that, and so they went.

* * *

**Rented Apartment of "Jay Massani," Washington, D.C./September 15, 2010, 2023 Romeo**

The keyboard of Hauser's laptop was silent as the SEAL himself sat down on the side of the small table to McGee's right, a hot bowl of chicken noodle soup in one hand and a plate with a good old fashioned Spammich in the other.

"You're not gonna wanna eat anything solid with a broken orbital bone, trust me," he said, dismissing the lack of typing as McGee thinking on what to search for next. Just a little pause in the process, so to speak. "Pressure from biting through it'll shoot up your face and make it hurt like hell. Soup's your best bet, so enjoy it."

He took a large bite of his sandwich, and chewed it as he looked off into space. It took a moment for him to realize just how long the pause in McGee's typing was taking. He looked back and studied the agent, but he didn't need to waste the effort: McGee's stature showed it wasn't a pause in the work. It was just not doing it.

The agent didn't look at the SEAL as he took a tentative spoonful of soup. Hauser's chewing had all but stopped, and he finally swallowed before asking, "You find anything at all on 'em yet?"

"Nope," McGee said, again not looking at Hauser as he took another spoonful. Hauser noted the tone of his voice: it almost sounded chipper. Maybe spiteful, antagonistic. Defiant, even. As much of those qualities as a man in obvious pain could be in, anyway.

"What have you been looking for?" Hauser asked.

"Nothing," McGee replied without a moment's hesitation. He was on his third spoonful, and he was doing his damndest not to look at Hauser.

The SEAL set his jaw in annoyance, then looked at his plate as he set his sandwich back on it. He then stood, casually taking McGee's bowl as well as his own plate and then putting them on the counter. He walked back to the table, and didn't even break his stride when he threw his fist into the large bruise over McGee's left eye.

McGee had enough awareness outside the pain to know he was now on the floor, the chair he'd been in moments earlier laying on its back beside him. He rolled onto his own back and stared at the ceiling.

_What's with the dots?_ he wondered vaguely. Indeed, the black flakes in the left side of his vision were no longer the only oddity. The left half of his vision now seemed fuzzier than the right, as if it'd taken a milky layer of frosted glass over it. And there were countless small black dots cascading down his vision, like a waterfall with no top or bottom.

For the first time that night, a realization which surprised him, he wondered what it'd be like if his left eye no longer functioned at all.

He had no time to put any serious thought into it though, as suddenly Hauser was over him, USP in his right hand. Then there was the pain as the cold metal barrel of the handgun was applied to the bruise of his broken eye socket, and constant pressure applied.

"Agent McGee, you're truly a man of your convictions, and I respect that," Hauser said over McGee's screams of pain, frustration in his voice for the first time since the beating at the BP. "But _I don't give a shit_ for whatever personal ethics are guiding you. I don't care how much sleep or humanity you lose from this, I don't care how scarred you are from this, you are going to help me find these men. In case you haven't noticed, I take my missions very seriously, and I will do whatever I have to do to finish them. Right now, you're the fastest and easiest way to get it done, but _I will not hesitate_ to blow your brains out right here and right now if you do not cooperate, even if it means doing it the long way. There's just as many cons as pros to havin' you around, and I could get rid of them all with only a few pounds of pressure.

"So please, Agent McGee, for my sake and your boss's sake, get this search done. The sooner you get it done, the sooner this'll all be over with, and the sooner you can be back with your boss and your partner and your girlfriend and whoever else the fuck is waiting for you. Once I'm done, I'm gone. You will never see me again, and you can go on with your life as well as you can."

"There…" McGee started, his voice shrill and his breathing shaky and uneven. "There _is_ no rest of my life! Once I help you, I'm just a liability, and there's nothing stopping you from killing me!"

"Believe it or not, Agent McGee, there is," Hauser said, finally taking the gun away from the swelling bruise. "I like you Agent McGee. You and I, we're of the same ilk: we're both willing to do whatever's necessary for whatever it is we believe. You're willing to let me beat you _blind_ and into unemployment to save these men. And I'm willing to kill and maim anyone I have to to get these men, these men who've killed the best people I've ever known. Even if it means throwing my life away in a slammer."

McGee closed his eyes and swallowed against a wave of pain and nausea. "That last bit doesn't reassure me very well."

"Look at it this way, Agent McGee: I'm on a mission. And until I finish that mission, you're just an asset that I can use to finish my mission as soon as possible. And I have no qualms about disposing of an asset if it becomes a liability, or endangers my mission. But if you're still with me when I finish my mission, then you're home free. 'Cause then I got no reason to kill you."

"I'd testify against you," McGee wheezed. "When they caught you."

"Well number one, they're not going to catch me. You don't do deniable operations for fifteen years without learning to disappear and never be found unless you want to be. Number two: you wouldn't need to testify. If they did catch me I'd plead guilty to every charge."

Hauser stood, reholstered his weapon, and righted McGee's chair before lifting the agent back into it.

"Remember, you've got family and friends who wanna see you in good health again someday," Hauser said as he replaced the soup bowl and the sandwich plate. "Don't take that away from them forever because of two shitbags who aren't even worth the sweat in my jock strap."

Hauser went back into the kitchen, where he pulled a small bottle of Gatorade out of the fridge and a bottle of aspirin out of one of the cupboards. When he came back to the dining area, McGee was slowly typing, a look of utter emptiness on his face. The typing was slow and clunky, and stopped completely when Hauser put the two small bottles he held onto the table beside the laptop.

Hauser took his seat and resumed his dinner as McGee tried to open the aspirin with shaking hands. When it was clear he couldn't do it, Hauser set his sandwich down and helped, then helped him open and drink the Gatorade. After McGee drowned two aspirin pills with the red concoction, he went back to work, his torso feeling as hollow as a balloon.

* * *

**Outside the Apartment of "Jay Massani," Washington, D.C./September 15, 2010, 2039 Romeo**

Gibbs could've sworn to God that the space between cars he saw before the target building was _way_ too damn small for the Charger. He would've bet his badge, gun and every cent of retirement pension that no sane human being on Earth with a soul could manage to park the Charger in that spot if they took the utmost care of a snail's crawl. If by some work of the devil they _did_ manage to get it in, they surely would've dented or even torn off a bumper.

Ziva somehow whipped it in at 105 mph and didn't even scratch the paint.

Despite the hammering in his chest, he was only a second behind Ziva as they leapt from the car and stormed up the stoop into the front door. The first floor looked to be just for mailboxes and broom closets, no actual residences. Their feet were unexpectedly quiet as they bolted up the stairs, running as if the fires of hell were at their feet. Once they reached the second floor, Gibbs looked between the hallway before them and the stairs leading up.

The ISP gave them the building, but not the room. And there were only two agents to search each floor individually. Growling, Gibbs pulled out his phone and hit Abby's speed-dial number.

"Abby, I need you to-"

"_Gibbs, I've already been checking on the occupants!"_ she cut him off. _"They all check out except for one on the third floor, room 327. The owner's info comes back to a special CIA account they use to pay for agent expenses when they're overseas. It was hacked to pay for three months worth of rent for the apartment, and the CIA's questioning the guy in charge."_

As Abby talked, Gibbs motioned upstairs. _327_ he mouthed as he and Ziva began their ascent.

"If Hauser did it and he was able to hack a CIA funding system, why in the hell does he need McGee?"

"_They don't think Hauser did it himself,"_ Abby explained. _"He's done a lotta work for 'em, Gibbs, and a lotta people owe him favors. The guy in charge of the fund was one of 'em."_

Gibbs worried what other favors Hauser had used in his revenge plot…or had yet to cash in.

"Keep me updated, Abbs," Gibbs said before closing the phone. He and Ziva were then at apartment 327 as they took up positions on opposite sides of the door. They drew their SIGs before Gibbs gave the signal. Ziva did her thing and kicked the door open.

"_Federal agents, freeze!"_ Gibbs screamed as he and Ziva burst in, their firearms covering all angles.

The apartment was empty.

For a moment, the two could only stand there before they spread out. This place was small, almost more like a hotel room, Ziva took the bedroom and bathroom (both abysmally small) while Gibbs took the living/dining room and kitchen.

"Clear!" Ziva said as she came back into the main room, sliding her handgun into her holster.

"Clear," Gibbs replied as he came to stand beside the table. On it was a plate covered in crumbs, and a near empty bowl with what looked like soup broth. As he reholstered his gun with one hand, he held the other out and felt the side of the soup bowl with the back of his middle knuckle. "Still warm."

"We just missed them…"

Gibbs turned around and walked back into the main hall, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

"_Dammit!"_ he shouted in rage, his fist piercing the drywall like a knife through paper.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** See chapter 1 for the disclaimer.

* * *

**Near Warren Hanson's Home, Allandale, Virginia/September 15, 2010, 2125 Romeo**

When Gibbs reported the apartment empty and had Metro secure it to scour for evidence, he and Ziva took their Charger to a station for gas. There Abby reached him and told him some very disconcerting news, news which changed the game significantly. Gibbs placed some calls to Tony and Fornell, and by the time he got to Vance, they were nearing his Hanson's home on Starr Jordan Drive.

"Hacked?" Vance asked, his voice registering the kind of surprised anger a parent has when they find pot in their kid's room. "Our database was _hacked_?"

"Yeah, Leon, it was," Gibbs replied. "Abby says there wasn't even a remote attempt to conceal it. Thing is we were too busy trying to get to Hauser and McGee to notice it."

Vance sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and continued the conversation, his voice now level and back to business. "Did she trace it, find out who it was?"

"Yeah, she traced it, right back to the burn house Ziva and I just handed over to Metro. As for who…"

"You think he was coerced?"

"Damn right I think he was coerced, Leon, I'm pretty sure he's had the hell beaten out of him a few times!"

"Settle down, Jethro. Getting mad at the situation isn't gonna resolve it any sooner."

Now it was Gibbs's turn to sigh. "Yeah…yeah, I know."

"What exactly did they access?" Vance asked, returning to the matter at hand.

"Safehouse information. Locations, guard rosters, and schedules, stuff like that. I called Fornell to see if he could lend an FBI safehouse, but they're all in use already."

"Every FBI safehouse in the D.C. area's already being used?" Vance asked, somewhat and understandably incredulously.

"Yep. They finally got a solid case against Crane Mercer, that underboss they've been after for awhile now."

"Mr. Neo," Vance voiced the street's moniker that popped into his mind. "Able to dodge whatever we throw at 'im."

"And now they got enough people to hold him in place for the firing squad, and we're left to deal with the hand we got."

"Alright, so what's our hand?"

"Safehouses are out of the question. We also have to assume they know where Hanson and Margott live. Now, Hanson's home is in driving distance, but not Margott's. Hauser can keep McGee as a hostage or for leverage until after hitting Hanson, but he can't risk dragging him all the way up to Maine."

"McGee'd be a liability..." Vance trailed off, not wanting to think of what an operative with any decent amount of common sense would do with a liability.

"…Yeah…yeah he would."

"So Hanson would be his first target…you already got a trap set up?"

"Yep."

"And where's Hanson now?"

"His place, right in the middle of DiNozzo and eight FBI agents."

"He's _where?"_ Vance sat up. One of these days he was gonna have a coronary…

"Home. When DiNozzo filled him in, he said he wasn't gonna run. Way he sees it, if Hauser even catches a whiff of a trap or any sign that Hanson's not there, he's gonna bail and we'll lose our chance to get him. He volunteered himself as bait and wouldn't take no for an answer."

"Sounds like someone I know."

"That's what DiNozzo said, too."

"Well, on the bright side of this, Margott's out of the whole mess."

"Actually he's not."

That made Vance frown even more, if that was possible. "He's not?

"He's staying in a room in the Georgetown Suites, been here on business with the Pentagon for the past two weeks. He's got a flight out to Seoul tomorrow morning, so Fornell and his guys have decided to let him stay put and play Secret Service."

"They can't secure that whole building…then again they don't need to. Far as Hauser and McGee know, he's still in Maine."

"Yeah."

"Can McGee find out that he's there?"

"If Hauser somehow knew he wasn't home, yeah. I've got Abby keeping an eye out for searches that'd turn his location up, though. She'll call me the minute she finds one."

"So now we play the waiting game."

"'Fraid so, Leon.

Vance let out another link in an endless chain of sighs. "Helluva mess, Jethro."

Gibbs looked at his right hand as it sat on the steering wheel, covered in small bandages and butterfly sutures. As memories of the BP restroom flashed through his mind, he couldn't help but figure McGee was in a similar boat with his appendage.

"Yeah…yeah, it is."

* * *

**25****th**** Street NW, Washington, D.C./September 15, 2131 Romeo**

Hauser wasn't aware that Eaves Margott wasn't home. It disappointed him, because it meant that whenever they found Hanson, wherever he was, he'd have to get rid of McGee. Damn shame, he really did like the guy. But luck was on both men's sides that night, one's more than the other's. That wouldn't be seen until later, but in the here and now, Hauser was the man with the dice.

"Hauser," the SEAL answer his cell phone. Beside him, McGee sat in the passenger's seat..only he seemed more to simply just…_be_ there. He was slumped back into the seat, his eyes open but unseeing, his breathing steady and even, but pained. It was as if he'd crossed a line in himself and couldn't deal with it, so he'd simply shut down most of everything. Not quite comatose, but he definitely seemed dead to the world. It seemed to make the zip ties around his wrists and ankles unnecessary, but prudency was second nature.

"_Hauser? I hardly knew her!"_ the voice answered, making the SEAL smile. _"How things hangin' Slick?"_

"Alright, Henderson. Things're hangin' alright. What warrants the ring?" Henderson was a crusty son of bitch from the SOG that he'd worked with a few times in the field.

"_Eh, nothin' much just lookin' to shoot the shit. How's that search a' yours goin', the sappy Oprah one?"_

"Well, I finally got their names," Hauser said. He figured he could tell a little bit of what he knew, it'd been awhile since he and Henderson chatted. He wouldn't be any wiser.

"_Oh yeah? How many of 'em are from the Agency?_"

"Three. Randall Stockwell, Eaves Margott, and Stan Merdetzky."

"_Whoa. Well, Slick, I got good news and bad news for ya._"

"Ah, great," he grumbled. "What's the bad news?"

"_Randy Stockwell died a couple days ago."_

"What?" Hauser asked. His voice had just the right amount of shocked and crushed hope to sell him. That wasn't an easy thing to do with a SOG grunt.

"_Yeah, looks like a breakin' and enterin'. Don't know anything else about it, just what I heard through the grapevine."_

"Ah, dammit…d'ya know him?"

"_Nah, never even heard of him before the word spread. A death in the agency's a big deal though, obviously. But that does bring me to the good news."_

"And what's that?"

"_I _do_ know Eaves. He retired this year and went into business full time, made it pretty big. He lives up in Lovell."_

Hauser sighed. "Looks like I'm callin' Maine tomorrow."

"_Not necessarily. I bumped into him today at the Pool, we shot the breeze and caught up. He's staying at the Georgetown Suites until tomorrow morning, and if you hurry up you can reach him tonight."_

A new smile found its way back onto Hauser's face. It wasn't anything like the friendly smile he had at answering Henderson's call, though. It was a predator's smile.

"You got his room number?"

"_And the hotel's number. What would you do without me, Slick?"_

Hauser looked to his right and saw McGee, with his head turned to the side and staring at him. His smile became even wider as he said, "I'd probably shoot someone in frustration, Henderson."

* * *

**Mendocino Grille and Wine Bar, Georgetown, Washington D.C./September 15, 2010, 2140 Romeo**

After ending the five minute call and turning down a few streets to head in the opposite direction, it only took three minutes to get within sight of the Georgetown Suites. Hauser didn't park his car in front of or anywhere near it though. Like Merdetzky's, his target building was down the street from where Hauser and McGee currently sat, the parking lot at Mendocino Grille and Wine Bar. Separating Mendocino and what appeared to be a shopping center of some kind (which was the Georgetown Suites' northern next-door neighbor) was M Street Northwest.

It'd be a long trek if things went south, but Hauser had been in worse. His mind wandered back to the desert, even more so when the music system in Mendocino started a new song.

"You've gotta be shitting me," he mumbled. He could recognize that song if it were sung by a harelip…

_Two white pickup trucks, old pieces of shit, bounced along the desert in a staggered side by side line. The cloud billowing in their wake was like a ghetto sandstorm. Each truck had three men crammed into the cab, two DEVGRU operators and a CIA SOG paramilitary operations officer. They were all dressed in olive green and brown clothing common to the area, including shemagh headscarves wrapped around their heads and under their chins. When they had to get dirty, they could just pull the under-chin part up to their cheeks, keeping the infernal grains out of their mouths. They all had beards of varying length, dark tans, and throat microphones concealed by their shemaghs . One member of this seemingly ragtag band of operators was using his mic for his own form of entertainment since the radios sucked monkey nuts._

"She says we've gotta hoold on, to what we got, it doesn't make a difference if we make it or not, we got each other, and that's a lot for loove. We'll give it a shot!"

"_God_dammit_ Pitch," Dasher cut off the offending singer, whose moniker was the only resemblance of pitch the SEAL had. "I don't care if I have to jump from my truck to yours, I will make you shut the _fuck_ up if you don't do it yourself!"_

"_Does he always do that?" PMOO Gaskill asked from his cramped space between Hauser and Dasher._

"_Every chance he can get," Hauser replied, his eyes never leaving the desert before him as he kept a solid hold on the steering wheel. "If he thinks his dick is big enough, he'll start doing it in the middle of the night when we're trying to sleep."_

"I make sure there aren't any hadji-fucks around first, Slick, gimme credit when it's due!"

"_He does have a way of making the goats stay away," Dasher conceded._

"Asshole."

Hauser set his jaw as he came back to the present and turned to McGee. "Alright, Agent McGee, you know the drill. Look at the bright side, s'almost over."

With that, he stepped out into the night chill and started walking, his hands in his pockets. Just another Faceless John out for a stroll. Enjoying the nice summer night air before autumn began turning down the temperature.

He walked down the east sidewalk along 30th Street Northwest, never making eye contact with the other people he passed. Those who made contact stood out and were easily remembered. He came to the crosswalk just as the DON'T WALK signal turned into the green outline of a man walking, meaning Hauser never even had to break his stride. He reached the southeastern corner of the intersection of 30 St NW and M Street Northwest, and continued straight past the Vietnam Georgetown restaurant. After passing the Best Address Real Estate further south, he turned left into the alleyway between the shopping center and the Suites. It took him awhile, but he eventually found a back door. He tested it, found it open, and slipped inside.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer:** See chapter 1 for the disclaimer.

* * *

**Georgetown Suites, Georgetown, Washington D.C./September 15, 2010, 2147 Romeo**

If Hauser had to guess, he was in some form of maintenance hallways for janitors and handymen to move around the hotel quickly without being seen by the guests. Hauser had dated a girl in the hotel business once, a long time ago, before he'd grasped the obvious fact that he just wasn't made for that kind of relationship. She'd explained a lot about it and its own little culture and rules. One of those rules was to make sure the guests saw as little of the staff who kept the place running in the mechanical sense as possible. It gave an impression that they weren't needed as frequently, and thus the hotel was a better quality, thus their money was well spent, thus their money was well spent, thus they should spend even more of it or spend it there again later.

He eventually came through a door into a side hallway, which lead to the main lobby. There were a few people milling about, and Hauser was just about to head for the elevators when he saw the two men in dark suits standing on either side of them. Their stances and attentive scanning of their surroundings meant they could only be feds.

_Figures. They know he's in town and I'm after him, they're gonna try to be sure._

Hauser turned and retreated back to the side hallway, and then even further back into the maintenance hall. It took a little searching, but he found a wall mounted slip of paper containing the layout map of every floor. The layout for each floor was the same, the only differences being in regards to which wing of the floor he was looking for. This map only showed the rooms on the ground floor, but if the pattern was the same on every floor, he needed to head up to…floor fourteen.

_Which might really be floor thirteen._

Another quirk of hotel culture was the "nonexistent thirteenth floor." In the old days, guests would refuse to stay on the thirteenth floor because of the number's association with bad luck. After awhile, hotels adopted one of two common practices which continued into the present: they'd either use the thirteenth floor exclusively for storage and spare supplies, or they would simply label the thirteenth floor as the fourteenth in the guest elevator, add a few turns to the guest stairway to make it appear longer between floors twelve and thirteen, and pretend there _was_ no thirteenth floor.

When he entered the maintenance elevator, he saw the letter S on one of the buttons instead of thirteen. So it was, in fact, fourteen floors he had to deal with. With that confirmed, he made his way to the stairway instead, peeked inside the small vertical window, and entered when he saw it was clear. He closed the door as slowly and quietly as possible before making his way upstairs. He kept his steps light and soft, meaning no steps echoed up the narrow shaft between the stairs and floors. He heard no doors open or close, nor did he hear any footsteps of descending workers. When he reached the fourteenth floor, he checked the window and saw the hall was clear, maybe. It certainly was right in front of the door, anyway.

Slowly, oh so slowly, Hauser opened the door and peered in to the right. Clear. He stepped around the door and looked to the left. Clear. With a sigh of relief, he closed the door and walked along the maintenance hall until he found the door leading into the guest hall.

This was the tricky part. Unlike the stairwell doors, this one had no window at all, meaning he'd be risking walking right into a G-Man. Or a Faceless John mindin' his own business who'd get curious when he saw someone creepin' around, obviously tryin' not to be seen. Such a John could draw attention, maybe alert the hotel staff. Then they'd alert the feds, and Hauser would have a whole slew of problems on his hands. With that possibility on his mind, Hauser drew his USP and screwed on the suppressor.

Suppressors didn't work in real life like they did in movies. The shots from his handgun wouldn't magically become soft pops that couldn't penetrate flimsy hotel doors. You can't eliminate the sound of a miniature explosion, which is essentially what a firing gun is. A suppressor's job isn't to eliminate the sound, since that's impossible, its job is to dampen the noise as much as possible, make it sound like something _other_ than a gun firing, and eliminate the muzzle flash. That last part was realistic, at least.

The point remained that when Hauser used his firearm, even with the suppressor, he'd start an invisible clock, one that ended when the staff sent someone up to investigate the loud snapping or slamming noises guests were calling the front desk about. They might even bring an agent or two with 'em.

Hauser didn't want to fire a shot until he got to Margott's room. Then the other guests _might_ shrug it off as some other guest being noisy or watching TV too loudly.

The door only gave the slightest creak as he opened it to reveal a small alcove. Directly to his right was the hallway, which the alcove jutted out of perpendicularly. Stepping around the door and letting it close quietly, Hauser peered around each corner. Going left would lead past several doors and what was likely a niched out area for the elevators before eventually hitting the end of the hall. Going right would lead to the other end, which was much closer.

A _ding_ signified the arrival of an elevator. Hauser ducked back into the alcove and listened. Only one set of footsteps exited the elevator, walking along tiles of the niche area before almost vanishing on the carpet of the hall itself. Hauser pressed himself against the left corner furthest from the hall itself and crouched down, keep his weapon in hand.

He picked up the sound of the footprints again mere seconds before a man, whose manner of dressing and carrying himself meant he could only be a fed, walked by going right. Quietly, Hauser followed at a crouched walk, making sure to roll his weight. He was thankful for the carpeting. Another trick he used was to not look directly at the agent himself. The well-known feeling of being watched was a true phenomenon, in Hauser's experience, and some people had it stronger than others. By watching the spot directly in front of the man's feet, Hauser was able to keep track of and follow his progress without risking giving himself away by the hairs on the back of the agent's neck.

That progress ended before 1426. The agent reached into his pocket, withdrew a card key, and inserted it into the slot above the door knob. He whipped it back out, and when the lock clicked, he turned the knob and began to enter.

In a flash, Hauser shot his left arm out under the agent's left armpit, hooked it around the man's neck, and squeezed, using his shooting hand to apply more leverage to his left hand. The agent couldn't even grunt in surprise, and his struggles were useless as Hauser pushed him into the room, letting the door close behind them.

The large living room and the dining room were before Hauser and his choking hostage, and as they moved from the foyer area, a second man in a dark suit came into view, sitting in a chair and reading a magazine. This agent looked up, and his reaction was instant, as he dropped the magazine and shot to his feet, his right hand going for his holstered Glock 22.

At the same moment, Hauser released his chokehold and shoved his meatshield forward. The two agents collided and fell to the floor, unable to even reorient themselves before four .45 caliber rounds ended their panic.

Hauser turned, scanning his surroundings with his USP. No one was in the kitchen, so that meant…

The sound of a door opening in the bedroom confirmed his suspicion. "Agent Heinz? Agent Green? Is everything alright?"

When Eaves Margott turned through the doorway into the living room, wearing only a bathrobe, he froze at the sight of the man standing near his two dead bodyguards, a silenced pistol in his hands…and pointed right at him.

He hadn't been a field operative, his work in the SAD had been of the intelligence variety, one he felt was more true to the purpose of the Agency. But even a man like him could tell that this stranger knew what he was doing.

He barely had time to wish he'd taken that Agent Fornell's advice to get an early flight out of the States before he marked another tally in Hauser's mission.

* * *

Hauser was a bit quicker going down the maintenance stairway. His weapon and suppressor were both stashed in their individual holsters, and his immediate goal was to get out the same way he'd come in: unnoticed. He was just making the turn to head down the flight between floors seven and six when he came face to face with an FBI agent leaning against the railing, a lit cigarette halfway towards his mouth.

Both men jumped, then froze in shock for a moment. Unfortunately, the fed was the faster man.

His left hand dropped the cigarette and raised to his cheek, where he was able to start yelling into the small mic in his jacket cuff. His right hand, meanwhile, was attempting to draw his Glock. Though Hauser had kept fit and fast in his age, the youngblood had the advantage and was able to get a warning out before Hauser had even finished drawing his USP.

"Contact, maintenance stairway floor seven!" the fed cried before gripping his weapon in both hands. He was just opening his mouth to order Hauser to freeze when the SEAL unhesitatingly pulled off the Mozambique Drill.

_BANGBANG BANG_

The sounds of the unsuppressed shots echoed and bounced off the concrete walls, reverberating up and down the shaft like Speedy Gonzales in a Red Bull commercial. It'd been awhile since Hauser had endured such a loud volume on a constant basis, and so his ears were actually ringing, that cotton-packed feeling stronger than it'd been since his rookie days. Looking down at the dead agent, Hauser could clearly see the earwig he wore.

_Fucking stupid!_ he thought. _I shoulda smelled the tobacco, god_dammit_ that was stupid!_

"_SShhit!"_ Hauser screamed in frustration. Instinct took over and ejected the empty magazine from his USP before stowing it in a back pocket. From his right pocket he withdrew a fresh clip, slapped it home into the magazine well, and flicked the slide catch. He then took stock of what the fed had reported.

_Maintenance stairway, floor seven…alright, need to get outta this stairway and off this floor._

Nodding, Hauser bolted down the stairs, keeping his weapon drawn but lowered by his right leg. Once at the sixth floor, he burst through the door into the maintenance hallway. Behind him, he could hear another door burst open, its own banging echoing up the shaft from somewhere down low, likely the first floor.

Hauser's next obstacle was a man with olive skin in a pair of worker's coveralls, likely a janitor. He'd been approaching the door, maybe to investigate the loud banging, when Hauser had entered. His eyes widened in shock and fear before he turned and began to run. He looked about Hauser's age, but unlike the SEAL, he certainly wasn't fit in that age. He easily chased and tackled the man down and broke his neck before he had the chance to cry for help. Shooting him would've been easier, but it also would've given him away.

Standing, Hauser rushed to the door leading into the guest hall. He went through, making sure to keep his weapon low and behind his leg so that anyone walking toward him from the front wouldn't see it. If they were walking in the same direction as he was from behind, well, he was shit outta luck. But he needed his weapon out and able to use in a moment's notice.

The guest hall seemed empty, so Hauser resumed his casual walking pace. He kept his ears open for any opening doors, specifically any behind him. Sure enough a door did burst open, but not behind him: the guest stairway door ahead and to the right flew open in the wake of two agents with their weapons drawn.

"Contact!" one of them radioed.

Hauser's USP was like a cobra as it flew up and fired three shots, dropping the radioing fed like a bag of sand. Said fed's partner had already taken cover behind one of the pillars that lined the walls every two doors or so. Hauser likewise covered up beside his nearest pillar just as two shots hit the other side of it. He cursed his luck again, as any moment now he'd be pancaked between the fed ahead, and the agents behind. Hauser looked back toward the maintenance hall alcove when he saw his answer: a wall-mounted fire extinguisher directly across from said alcove.

As if perfectly synched with the forming of his plan, the alcove door burst open and the agents emerged.

Hauser fired a single shot and hit the red tank.

The resulting gush of pressurized nitrogen and sodium bicarbonate filled that section of the hallway with a thick gray-white cloud. An agent was knocked over, another screamed about his eyes, and all were confused and blind in some fashion.

With them taken care of, Hauser returned his attention to the lone agent ahead. Hauser began moving up, fast, his pistol held out before him. The agent popped out to take a shot, but Hauser was faster, dropping to a knee and putting two rounds into his head. Without breaking stride, he burst into the stairwell and started running down.

_If they're smart they'll have someone watching the bottom, _he thought before bursting through the door onto the second floor guest hall. Hauser tried to remember the hall's orientation to the northern alley, where he'd made his entrance, simultaneously counting down the seconds as they passed. No doubt the cops were on the way, and once back-up arrived, lockdown would make this place a bitch.

…But they couldn't lock it down if _everyone_ was leaving, could they?

Hauser stopped, turned, and searched. He almost gave up before he found it: the fire alarm. He gave it a yank before heading to a door which (he thought) lead to a room overlooking the alley. With a swift kick, he sent the door crashing inwards before following it in. The room's light was on, and a young, screaming, and attractive woman was in the bed, her sheets pulled up to her waist as she began backpedalling, as if she were trying to bury herself into the headboard.

Hauser ignored her and went straight to the window. It did indeed look out over the alley, and even better: right across said alley was a storage warehouse for the shopping center. An eighteen-wheeler trailer had been parked against one of the large loading bays and left. It'd be tough, but Hauser thought he could make it.

Raising his pistol, Hauser fired three shots that made the glass disintegrate. Screams came from the hallway, where people were abandoning their rooms in a panic induced by the wailing alarms and the gunfire.

Hauser holstered his weapon, pulled himself onto the window sill where he remained crouched in the broken frame, and gauged the distance one more time. Then with a mighty effort, he threw himself forward into the drop.

If the universe was just, Hauser would've missed the trailer and broken his spine in the fall, causing no more bloodshed that night before living the rest of his life in two kinds of prisons: a federal penitentiary, and a wheelchair. But he was half-right in thinking he could make it.

His chest slammed into the corner of the trailer, his arms struggling to find a grip as his legs kicked against its side. For a moment, he had it, then his foot slipped and gravity pulled the SEAL off the trailer and to the asphalt below. After the hard _plop_ of his body hitting the ground, he simply laid there, the sounds of screaming and alarms bleeding into the night from the shattered window above.

After a few deep coughs, Hauser pulled himself up, beat to hell and dirty, but otherwise none the worse for wear, and started walking.

* * *

**Mendocino Grille and Wine Bar, Georgetown, Washington D.C./September 15, 2010, 2236 Romeo**

In his stupor of broken spirit, McGee didn't mark the passing of time. He only knew the feeling of utter disgust he felt at himself, and the dread at what deserved-rejection he'd get from his team.

Then the driver's door opened, letting in the distant sounds of sirens, and a sweaty, dirty Vince Hauser took his seat and shut the door. For a minute, he just sat there. After taking a few deep breaths, the silence of the car was broken by its engine before Hauser pulled out and began heading south, lookin' to eventually make US-50 and head west. Toward Hanson.

Toward the end of the whole mess.

For awhile the drive was silent, and then, either because he had the gallows humor that was a trademark of any combat veteran or simply because he liked the music, Hauser put in a CD, and the bass riff of "Another One Bites the Dust" filled the silence.

As Freddie Mercury told the horrible truth of it all, McGee sat, hated himself even more, and didn't fight the tears.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer:** See chapter 1 for the disclaimer.

* * *

**Georgetown Suites, Georgetown, Washington D.C./September 15, 2010, 2243 Romeo**

The main plaza of the Georgetown Suites was chaotic. Actually, the whole area in and around the hotel was a mess. Mobs of people milled about, wondering what the hell was going, where was the fire, and when could they go back inside. Fire trucks were parked in the plaza, but once it was apparent there was no fire, they instead aided the police in attempting to keep order.

On the fourteenth floor, at room 1426, FBI agents were coming and going as they secured the scene and transferred evidence in and out. Talking on his phone down the hall, by the elevators, was Agent Fornell. The white powder covering him gave him the almost comical look of a prank victim, and the shoe print on his face would garner even more chuckles. The _look_ on said face, however, would've killed those chuckles faster than SIDS.

"We screwed the pooch, Jethro," Fornell told his friend. "I don't know how he did it, but Hauser knew Margott was in town. He killed him and five of my agents on his way in and out."

"_You couldn't catch him?"_

"We had one group a' guys watchin' the ground floor and another headin' up to pincer 'im. The pincer group…ran into some trouble. The ground floor group never even saw him, 'cause he jumped out a window from the second floor."

"_He hurt himself?"_

"Scratched himself on the glass, but that's all we know. If we're lucky he's hobblin' around on a broken leg. He'd have to either seek treatment or do it himself."

"_Pretty sure he'd just do it himself, Tobias._"

"I'll bet. Listen, Jethro…this guy's good. You and your people out there are gonna need help. I'll send some more agents with vests and assault weapons. I didn't think we'd really need 'em to take down one guy, but-"

"_Don't do that, Tobias."_

"…Why the hell not? In case you didn't hear me earlier, he killed _five_ agents to get to this guy, and he-"

"_Tobias, there's already eleven people out here. We already have vests, but we don't have much room, and we're already using up all our hiding spots. Since he knows we were guarding Margott, he'll be expecting guards at Hanson's. If he can't see them, maybe he'll put too much focus on finding them to watch all his corners."_

"That's a helluva gamble Jethro," Fornell said, his gaze frozen forward. "You're risking Hanson's life, the lives of eight of my men, and your whole team's life on a maybe."

"_Eisenhower did it on D-Day."_

"You think that makes you Eisenhower?"

"_No. Makes me think it can be done. I've got damn good people, Tobias. We're getting this son of a bitch, and we're getting McGee back."_

Fornell was silent for a moment. "I hope so, Jethro…I really hope so."

* * *

**State Road 699, Annandale, Virginia/September 15, 2010, 2349 Romeo**

They were so close. So _fucking_ close Hauser could hear the brain spatter. Mere miles from their last stop…and the fucking radiator died. That was how the BMW came to be stopped on the side of the road with its hood up and its emergency lights flashing. First they'd been unable to take US-50, the fastest way to Annandale, and now the car was fucking broken.

If Hauser could be grateful for one thing, at least, it was that the car broke down here on a relatively empty state road. For over an hour now, Hauser and McGee had driven through varying degrees of urban streets and suburban neighborhoods. Here, though, Hauser could make a swap, if his luck was right, and have no witnesses.

Of course, part of that luck was whether or not a car actually came along and-

Ah. Here's one now.

Hauser moved to a spot right beside the BMW's rear left tire, and raised his arms in the air, waving them slowly. This was the third car he'd seen in the past ten minutes, and hopefully, third time would be the charm.

As the stars would have it, it was.

A smoke grey 2005 Pontiac Grand Prix, occupied only by the driver, pulled onto the shoulder and stopped right behind the BMW. The driver side door opened, and a man in a pair of workout clothes stepped out.

"You need some help, man?" the stranger asked.

"Yeah," Hauser replied, a gracious smile upon his face. "Started makin' this funny noise and jerkin'. I pulled over, but I don't know jack shit about cars and can't figure out what's wrong."

"Well lemme see if what I can do," the man said before closing his door and approaching. Hauser turned and lead the way. As he came to the front of the car, he picked his USP, suppressor attached, off the engine block and held it low and out of sight. The movement was smooth, practiced, and executed before the other man had even seen under the hood of the BMW.

"Oh, wow," the man said as Hauser made his way to the man's right side, putting himself between the road and his would-be helper. "No offense, man, but you really _don't _know jack shit about cars. The radiator's busted, you're gonna have to-"

He never even turned his head before Hauser aimed and pulled the trigger, emptying the Good Samaritan's brain contents onto the road shoulder and one side of the BMW's under-hood. His body instantly dropped like a sack, landing on the engine block with a solid _thunk_ before gravity pulled it to the ground.

Hauser was already unscrewing his suppressor as he watched the ends of the road, looking for oncoming headlights. He still didn't see any by the time he stowed his weapon and dragged the body around the side of the car, putting the vehicle between it and the road. Hauser opened the passenger door and pulled Agent McGee up from where he'd been doubled over in the passenger seat. After cutting the zip tie around his ankles, Hauser helped the agent out and carried him to the Grand Prix, where he opened the passenger door and settled the agent into the seat before closing it back up and returning to the BMW.

From his new seat in the (much more comfortable) Grand Prix, McGee watched as Hauser lifted the body and set it in his old spot. McGee let out another choked breath. So much needless bloodshed… His eyes fell in shame, somehow feeling he was partially to blame.

And that was how he saw the phone.

It was just sitting there, in between the dashboard console and the gearshift, attached to a car charger. McGee couldn't believe it, and he actually closed his eyes for a few moments before opening them. It was still there. He had a way to-

The driver's door opened. McGee looked to Hauser, who stood there as he dug through his bag, the medical kit hanging off his shoulder. After pulling out some supplies and setting them on the seat, he leaned in and tossed the bag into the back seat. McGee stared forward, at the BMW, praying Hauser wouldn't see the phone, wouldn't know notice McGee wired like a circuit…

The doors clacked, unlocking when they were already unlocked, and then the _thunk_ of the trunk opening. Hauser stood, held the supplies in his hand, and shut the door. McGee remained frozen as he heard the SEAL's muffled steps take him to the back. There was a _thud_ as he dropped the medkit in, then closed the trunk. He then walked past McGee's window toward the BMW.

McGee picked up the phone and struggled to remove the charging chord from it, a tough task given his hands were still bound by a zip tie. Once he had it, though, he looked to see how much time he had: Hauser was fiddling with the gas tank cap, doing something with the supplies he held. McGee opened the phone and started texting as fast as he could.

* * *

**NCIS Headquarters, Washington D.C./September 15, 2010, 2352 Romeo**

In the quiet, darkened forensics lab, Abby lay sleeping on her futon, Bert the Hippo held close to her chest. She'd sworn to not leave the Navy Yard until McGee had been saved (and he most certainly _would_ be saved), so she'd left her computers running, set the alerts to police-siren-loud, and curled up for some shut-eye, recognizing that unless something happened, there wasn't anything else she could do.

It was all up to Gibbs, and that meant everything was already right as rain. Definitely…yeah.

But it wasn't a blaring computer alert that woke her. It was her cell phone, nudged between her cheek and her futon pillow, vibrating. She pulled herself into consciousness and read the text message she'd just received, hoping that it was Gibbs saying they'd found McGee and were bringing him home.

Not quite, but it was still definitely something.

_This is mcgee we tradd cars ner anandal gry or blck pontiac trace this phon_

At first, Abby only stared at it, reading it again and again to make sure she wasn't mistaken. Then she leapt to her feet, knowing she didn't have much time.

* * *

McGee let out a sigh of relief when he saw the battery was full. He could leave it off the charger and not worry about Abby losing the trace because the phone died. He set the phone under his thigh and looked, just in time to see Hauser returning to the Grand Prix, his hands empty and his eyes watching the end of the road. McGee closed his own eyes and leaned his head back, trying to let all of the tension in his body out in one breath.

Then the door opened and Hauser took his seat. The SEAL let out an exhale of his own, adjusted the seat and rearview mirror, then pulled off of the shoulder and drove, leaving the BMW behind.

Seconds later, it exploded in a fireball that shattered the night silence.

* * *

**COL Warren Hanson's (US Army, ret.) Home, Annandale, Virginia/September 15, 2010, 2357 Romeo**

It'd taken some convincing, but Warren Hanson finally had a good game of Hearts going, something he hadn't enjoyed in a long, long time. At first, no one else had wanted to participate; the FBI agents wanted to maintain a solely professional attitude, and each agent saw playing a card game with a guy they were supposed to be protecting as a horribly careless means of slacking on the job. Gibbs, meanwhile, had simply not wanted anyone to be around Hanson, should that be the moment Vince Hauser scouts the home. But as Colonel Hanson pointed out, if Hauser was willing to risk sneaking through a hotel full of any number of armed federal agents, four guys playing cards wouldn't be much of a deterrent.

Finally, Gibbs had allowed Ziva and two FBI agents to join the colonel.

"How come Ziva gets to play and I don't?" Tony had asked.

"'Cause if Hauser shows up in the middle of the game, she'd still be on her toes enough to react immediately," Gibbs had replied.

"I can play cards and stay on my toes," Tony said, almost defensively.

Gibbs had only raised an eyebrow in skepticism, and Tony couldn't quite hold his gaze. Several minutes later, Tony brought Gibbs a thermos of coffee.

"How's the perimeter?" he asked as he poured a capful.

"Car One and Two both report clear," Gibbs replied before taking a sip. "So do Malenko and Hennig out in the back yard."

"It's almost midnight," Tony commented as he screwed the lid back on the thermos. "That's, what, around six hours?"

"Just about."

For a moment, they simply stood there, watching and listening to the card game going on before them. Finally, Tony broke the silence.

"So Hanson shared some stories about his working days, while you were checking out back."

"Did he," Gibbs replied, though it obviously wasn't a question.

"Yeah. He talked about being on that committee, too…"

"Mhm," Gibbs nodded, more _get to the point_ than _I see_.

"You didn't mention that Hanson was the only one who tried to get Hauser's team backed-up."

Gibbs thought back to the day before, recalling what exactly he _did _say.

"_Got a suspect," Gibbs said as he strode into the bullpen, Fornell in tow, and handed a slip of paper to McGee. The younger agent, his hair still damp from using the building's showers after that horrible mess in the dumpster had its way with him, looked up from his current activity and read the name on the paper._

"_Vince Hauser, SOC, retired. He's a SEAL, Boss?"_

"_That's what 'SO' means, McGee," the team leader replied as he started pulling up forms on his own workstation._

"_We got a motive?" Tony asked from his desk._

"_Stockwell and Callaway were on a force deployment committee, supposed to get back-up to Hauser's team during and op and ditched 'em instead."_

"_Did they have a reason?" Ziva asked._

"_Nope. Just politics," Gibbs replied. Before long, McGee had his SRB ready on the plasma._

"No…no I didn't."

Tony watched his team leader for any change or sign of guilt or regret. "It wouldn't have changed anything if you'd told us, Boss. McGee knowing Hanson didn't belong on Hauser's hit list wouldn't have meant he'd believe him. We'd still be in this same situation."

Gibbs recognized his senior agent's attempts to alleviate any potential guilt he might feel, but he knew better than Tony, whether the young agent realized it or not.

"No…no it would've changed things, if Hauser believed him."

"How?"

"If Hauser knew he only needed to get four of 'em instead of all five, he wouldn't need to drag McGee around anymore."

Gibbs let it hang there, though Tony recognized the significance immediately. Instead of waiting for a killer, they'd be waiting for a body to turn up.

Gibbs's phone interrupted the realization.

"Yeah, Gibbs…what?"

Tony recognized the look on Gibbs's face: something really big had just happened.

"Can you keep us updated somehow?" A pause as he listened. "Just do it Abbs, now." He hung up before another word was said.

"Hauser and McGee switched cars, and McGee got ahold of a phone somehow. Abby's tracing it, we'll know exactly when they get here. She said she was sending the tracker to your-"

Tony's phone gave an alert beep usually reserved for received text messages, but as he pulled it up on his touch screen, he saw it was actually a GPS map. A blue dot marked Hanson's home, and a moving red one could only be Hauser and McGee.

It was getting awfully close.

As the two agents went about filling the others in on the latest development, they all began to feel the pressure of the time to act approaching, none more so than the three NCIS agents.

Despite the tension, they could at least take solace that it was almost over.

* * *

**Anne Fitz Hugh Drive, Annandale, Virginia/September 16, 2010, 0005 Romeo**

Two minutes. They were only two minutes away from Warren Hanson's home when things finally hit McGee at once. Six men were dead, not to mention anyone else Hauser managed to get when he was at the hotel. He was hell-bent on getting them all, and if anyone stood in his way, they were putting themselves in more danger than they'd likely ever know. For some reason, it made McGee think of signs you'd see at an amusement park, warning the thrill-seekers about particularly dangerous attractions.

_RIDE AT YOUR OWN RISK_

And McGee knew his team. They'd wanna be there to protect whoever was in danger. For all he knew, they were either at Warren Hanson's, standing guard over the retired soldier…or they could've been at the Georgetown Suites. For all he knew, that could mean someone he cared for like family was going to die really soon…or they were already dead.

_No, no don't think that, _he thought._ Come on, this is Gibbs and Ziva and Tony we're talking about. Tony's more resilient than a cockroach, Ziva can kill men with Scrabble pieces, and God alone knows what the hell Gibbs can do._

To Timothy McGee, his teammates had always been something more than just agents or co-workers. They'd been family, a family of superheroes. He'd just been the lowly geek lucky enough to get a spot in the building. If anyone could handle Vince Hauser, it was those three…

But what if they couldn't?

_Don't think that! They can, of course they can!_

But McGee couldn't help it. When the chips were down and the hands shown, they were all only human. Omniscient and Kryptonian though he appeared, Gibbs was just a flawed old man with a work ethic and standards likely too high for his own good. Resourceful and capable as he was, Tony was just a cop who knew how to play others like instruments. Ziva was the most likely to stand a chance, born and raised to lie, kill, and do so much more for the safety of her country. But not so much, anymore. Though he'd considered it a good thing, and now was _re_considering it, her time in the States and NCIS had softened and humanized her.

_But not this man._

McGee lolled his head to the side and stared at Hauser, who was only focused on driving, getting to his final destination.

In a truly DiNizzoian revelation, McGee was suddenly reminded of the Terminator.

_It can't be bargained with. It can't be reasoned with. It doesn't feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And it absolutely will not stop, _ever_, until you are _dead.

With Kyle Reese's warning in his head, McGee couldn't help but see how accurate it was. He tried to reason with himself, remind himself that Hauser, like his team, was only human. He wasn't a killer android…just a killer…

_One who's got a target, and my friends are in his way…_

McGee looked ahead as the car made a right turn onto Starr Jordan Lane, specifically the northern-most end of it. There was a steady left curve ahead, and then a straight shot that would lead to Warren Hanson, and nothing but more dead bodies.

The idea that another (mostly) innocent man could die because of his own incompetence made McGee sick. But he couldn't even comprehend the idea of his team being in the piles of bodies. And so, as they began the left-hand curve, Special Agent Timothy McGee snapped, forsaking his own safety and livelihood for the safety of his team and a man he'd never met before.

He snatched his hand out, grabbed the steering wheel, and gave it a hard jerk to the right.

For all his SEAL badassery, even Vince Hauser could be a victim of the element of surprise. He never even saw McGee's hand, all he felt was the steering wheel suddenly yanking right. He yanked back to the left, and the Grand Prix tried to correct itself, but the car couldn't beat physics.

It skidded off the right side of the road, which was little more than a steep decline onto flat ground. This created a noticeable drop, and the Grand Prix was airborne as it flew through said drop.

For a moment, time stood still for both men in the car. McGee could actually see the trees through the windshield, frozen sideways like some artsy metaphoric snap shot. Then time resumed its normal course, gravity took over, and the car slammed into the dirt of the forest floor.

The trees were thin and well spaced out, leaving plenty of room for the Grand Prix to crash and roll through before it finally settled onto its side, swayed for just a moment, then lolled onto its roof.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer:** See chapter 1 for the disclaimer.

* * *

**COL Warren Hanson's (US Army, ret.) Home, Annandale, Virginia/September 16, 2010, 0007 Romeo**

Warren Hanson was in a comfy chair in his study, a book in his hand and a shotgun laid across his lap. He had a trained operative of the highest order out to kill him, yet he was as calm as a man waiting for his number to be called at the DMV. No doubt it was a side effect of his own days as an operative, tough only of the Special Forces variety.

Six FBI agents were positioned outside: two in two cars each to watch the road, and two in the backyard. Inside the house itself, Agents Gibbs, David, and DiNozzo of NCIS, and two FBI agents, were placed around the house in the best hiding spots they could find, all perfect for ambushing a man attempting to sneak into the house. They had all their bases covered, and were simply waiting for Hauser to make his move.

That move seemed fast in arriving.

"_Boss,"_ Tony said through the cuff mic of his blue field jacket. _"The marker's stopped. Don't know if the car's stopped, but the cell phone definitely has."_

"Where's it at, DiNozzo?" Gibbs replied.

"_Less than half-a-minute north, driving time. On foot, it'd take him awhile longer."_

"How _much_ longer?" Gibbs asked, his voice carrying a slight tone of impatience.

"_Uh…five, five minutes."_

Gibbs's pocket then came alive with the vibration of his silenced phone. He was initially going to ignore it, but the possibility of McGee somehow getting out of the car, hiding, and making a call for help made him at least check the caller ID. It was Abby, and so Gibbs knew it was, at the least, probably very important.

"Yeah, Abbs?" he asked, his voice still conveying impatience. It would make one wonder how he ever made it as a scout sniper.

"_Gibbs! After I got the trace, I thought of a way to see what kind of car they're using! I pulled up GPS signals for all the cars in the area on a real-time updated stream and overlaid it onto the GPS track of the phone McGee's using."_

"Yeah? And?"

"_They're using a 2005 Pontiac Grand Prix, black-grey in color."_

"Got it Abbs, I'll let 'em know to keep an eye out for it."

He had almost hung up when Abby's voice gave him pause.

"_Gibbs, wait! That Pontiac has OnStar, and the system's reporting a crash! I zoomed the GPS in as close as I could, the car's actually off the road! McGee could be hurt!"_

Gibbs didn't even thank her before hanging up.

"DiNozzo! Get the Bureau guys and get to the GPS point, _now!_ The car's crashed, we might be able to get Hauser and McGee now, go go _go!"

* * *

_

There was hissing and steam, but otherwise the crashed Grand Prix was utterly quiet. Then, one of the windows dented outward and frosted over in millions of tiny cracks. Another impact knocked it clean out of the door, and it took a moment for Hauser to catch his breath and crawl out of the wreckage.

Hauser lay there on his back, looking at the stars as he caught his second wind. There was a gash on his head that covered the far left side of his face, everything between the eye socket and the ear, in blood. His clothes were torn and ragged, and he had more bruises than he could count. As he lay there breathing, he soon started to chuckle, and then outright laugh. Oh, it hurt to laugh.

_Good job, Agent McGee,_ he thought. _I applaud you on that one._

Hauser turned onto his side, lay there for a moment, then finally sat up. His plan had just been changed for him, it seemed. Oh well, Hauser would just have to roll with it. He thought over his choices, and in regards to the agent he had two: shoot him or leave him. Hauser was already within walking distance of his last target, so McGee was no longer necessary. But, really, there wasn't much harm he could do besides testifying, and Hauser hadn't lied when he said McGee wouldn't need to testify. One way or the other, he wouldn't need to.

Hauser's decision was even further cemented when he heard the sounds of fast approaching engines, three, maybe four of them. Hauser's gut told him those engines were bound for his current position, so he simply nodded, drew his USP, and slinked off into the shadows, leaving Agent McGee to be found by whoever was coming to the crash site.

* * *

On the curve at the northern-most end of Starr Jordan Lane, three cars pulled to a stop at the road's edges, forming a perimeter to block oncoming traffic from both directions. Nine men armed with handguns and flashlights emerged and began darting their beams around the woods.

"Got it!" one shouted, his light on a twisted warp of broken window.

NCIS Senior Field Agent Tony DiNozzo led the advance down the slope, three of the eight FBI agents remaining on the road to provide overwatch. Tony and the other five began securing the perimeter before the SFA dropped to his knees beside the wrecked car, lowered his torso as far as he could, and looked into the trashed cab, shining his flashlight around.

The beam only found a black bag, a broken cell phone, and pieces of zip tie. Glass shards of various sizes littered the roof (which was now the floor), and one particular piece stood out due to its large, almost knife-like size, and the amounts of blood all over it. If that weren't enough, there appeared to be matching blood on the remains of the zip ties.

_He cut his hands on the glass while cutting his bonds,_ Tony figured.

"Agent DiNozzo!" a voice called. "We've got footprints!"

"They shuffle!" another added. "Whoever it is is hurt!"

Tony stood and looked about. _Where are you, Probie?_ he thought.

"Spread out!" he ordered as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket. "Stick in pairs, keep your eyes open! Let's find these guys!" With that, he dialed up emergency services. He had a feeling they'd need some back up…and an ambulance or two.

* * *

**COL Warren Hanson's (US Army, ret.) Home, Annandale, Virginia/September 16, 2010, 0025 Romeo**

His injuries had made him slow, as had the need for stealth, but Vince Hauser had managed to follow the backyards of several houses along Starr Jordan Lane until he found the one that mattered most. With suppressed USP in hand, Hauser tested the back door and found it open. Just like the others…

_Strings of good luck always end,_ he thought. _Badly._

Just another risk among the thousands he took by simply living. Slowly and quietly, Hauser eased the door open, slinked in, and closed the door with barely a sound.

Considering how quiet the house was, however, it was still too loud for his taste.

Hauser began to slowly move inward, rolling his weight as usual, and kept his ears open. The house was quiet, as if empty, or its inhabitants sleeping. Hauser wondered what he'd do if the former were the case, though he highly doubted it…the lights were still on.

The back door area gave way to the kitchen, which gave way to the living room without incident as he made his slow, methodical progress.

Without incident, that is, until he entered the living room.

"Don't move, dirtbag," a strong voice in an unpleasant mood ordered. Hauser froze, his USP still aimed forward, before slowly turning his head to the left.

There was a doorway hidden just right by the shadows of the doorway connecting the kitchen and living room. In this doorway stood an older man with grey hair and steely blue eyes in a blue wind jacket holding a SIG Sauer P229 DAK, pointed right at him. The look on his face was one of concentrated authority…and a tinge of anger.

"Agent Gibbs, I presume," Hauser said conversationally. "Agent McGee's mentioned you once or twice."

Gibbs raised his head slightly. "He mention her, too?" he asked with a nod of his chin, indicating something behind Hauser. The SEAL slowly turned his head to view the area to his right, and saw a toffee-skinned woman with brown hair and fierce matching eyes, her gear a mirror of Gibbs's. What piqued his interest was the realization that she'd moved to his flank without so much as a sound, or even a sensation of anyone nearby.

"No," Hauser said. "No, he didn't…Iranian?"

The woman remained still, only her lips moving as she replied, "Israeli,"

"Mhm, authentic, too, if your accent's any indication…"

"Alright, that's enough," Gibbs growled. "Put your weapon down, slowly, and put your hands up."

Hauser slowly removed his left hand from his firearm and held it in the air, then began to slowly crouch down, his firearm held flat out before him. He kept his finger off the trigger and on the guard, instead. Once the piece was on the floor, he stood back up and kept his hands in the air.

"Now face me," Gibbs ordered. Hauser complied, turning ninety degrees to his left. Behind him, Ziva grabbed his left wrist with her left hand and pulled behind his lower back. Hauser knew the procedure for cuffing a standing suspect: secure one hand, stow weapon, retrieve cuffs, cuff secured wrist, then secure and cuff other wrist, all while being covered by a partner. Before him, Gibbs kept his SIG aimed squarely at Hauser's chest, his eyes carefully watching for any indication that the SEAL was gonna make a move.

Hauser gave no such sign, even when he heard the sound of metal in leather as the Israeli holstered her own SIG. Once he heard that, his right hand snatched out like a snake, grabbing Gibbs's hands and forcing them to the side and away from him. At the same instant, Hauser threw all of his weight backwards, keeping a tight hold on Gibbs, and dragging him down with him.

Special Agent Ziva David was a strong, capable woman, but her smaller frame was no match for two larger men barreling down on top of her. The breath was knocked out of her with a strong thump as she hit the ground, losing her grip on Hauser's left wrist on the process. The SEAL shoved Gibbs, who was only now starting to gain control, to the side and rolled off Ziva. Hauser's left hand snatched out and pulled, then Gibbs heard the sound of something hitting the ground in the distance as the SEAL tossed something through the basement stairway he'd been ambushed at.

Then Hauser went solely for Ziva, leaping on her and struggling to keep her from grabbing her own SIG. Gibbs sat up and brought his weapon up, only to see the slide and barrel missing, leaving only the grip and the trigger guard for him to hold. He tossed it aside immediately, regained his footing, and leapt onto Hauser. Wrapping one arm under the SEAL's chin and around his neck, and setting the other on top of his head for leverage and a better hold, Gibbs squeezed, applying pressure to the arteries..

Hauser knew he only had so much time before the sleeper hold put him down. If Gibbs was good enough, he only had seconds. Hauser turned his hips slightly to the right, giving his hand access to Gibbs's inner thigh, and squeezed the inguinal area halfway toward the knee. The effect was instantaneous, as Gibbs cried out in pain and released the hold, falling to the floor and gripping his leg.

Hauser took a few deep breaths, trying to get the deprived oxygenated blood back to his brain, then stood when he saw Ziva reaching her feet and drawing her SIG. He lunged and grabbed her hands, twisting her arms in attempt to point the gun away from himself. Ziva tried to go with the momentum of the twist and make him throw himself off, but Hauser was able to catch himself before he elbowed her hands, and kicked the SIG when it landed on the floor. Last either one of them saw it, it slid and disappeared into the kitchen.

The situation became a hand-to-hand fight, and it became fairly obvious to Hauser that this woman must've done something special in Israel, because she clearly knew Krav Maga. Israel was the birthplace of the fighting style, and all soldiers of the IDF learned at least the basics. The techniques she showed as she countered his offense (with moves he himself would then have to counter) were well advanced. She couldn't have been Sayeret, the Israeli Special Forces, because they didn't allow women. Of course she could've learned it here, in the States, if she'd been in the FBI before changing agencies.

The pondering of her roots came back to bite Hauser hard when Ziva's palm broke through his defenses and did a similar number on his nose. The blood hadn't even reached his lips before Ziva pounced, forcing him to the ground. Hauser used the momentum and his legs to throw her off and over.

Gibbs was now trying to stand, but finding it painful to do so. Whatever Hauser had done to his leg had done a number on it. He watched as Ziva charged again, still hoping to press the advantage and keep Hauser from regaining his composure.

On his end of things, the SEAL was finding his actions of the night catching up to him. He needed to mix things up. Keysi it would be. He began countering her moves in a new way, one which even a layman could tell was an entirely different way of fighting. Ziva's mind raced to place the style and was coming up short when Hauser was able to kick her knee out from under her and smack her back. Once she was on the ground, he turned to Gibbs, and saw the agent drawing a back-up revolver from an ankle holster.

Hauser scooped up his USP, rolled into a crouch, and pulled the trigger three times in less than a second.

_SNAPSNAP click_

The first two .45 caliber rounds fired perfectly, slamming into Gibbs's chest. The agent gasped in surprise and pain as the wind was knocked from him. The impact slammed him into the corner of a thin bookcase. He glanced off it, lost his footing and fell to the floor, and screamed when the offended bookcase fell onto legs, pinning him at the hips.

Hauser, after the _click_ that should've been the headshot, frowned and racked the slide, ejecting the dud. It had just hit the floor and bounced when an angry Israeli woman slammed into him from behind and took him to the floor. His gun landed under him, and before he could even try to get it out, his head was raised and an arm snaked around his neck. But this wasn't a blood choke like Gibbs had tried, this was an _air_ choke.

As he struggled to breathe (and unsurprisingly found that he couldn't) Hauser fought to assess his situation as quickly as he could without panicking, which was starting to become harder to do. He did register two things though: he could feel the front of her torso laying flat on his back (making it even harder to breathe because of what was likely a Kevlar vest), and…yeah, he could feel her warm ragged breath on his right ear.

The SEAL worked his hands out from under him and began groping blindly behind the right side of his head before finally finding the soft skin of her jaw. Guestimating, Hauser threw a blind jab and found her throat. He sucked in a wonderful gush of oxygen when Ziva released him and rolled off, holding her own throat and coughing.

After they both hacked and gagged, they managed to find their footing roughly at the same time. Ziva kicked the USP out of Hauser's hand and went for a punch to his face. But an angry fighter was a sloppy one, and Hauser easily countered, grabbing her wrist and wrenching her arm around behind her. Then he made a precise forearm strike.

The scream she let out came a split second after the sound of arm breaking. That was then followed by the sound of her head impacting with the wall as Hauser shoved her by the back of her neck. She fell to the floor barely conscious, the skin of her forehead broken and causing a red train down her temple and cheek.

Hauser stood, breathing heavily, and had just turned to walk and pick up his USP when he heard the unmistakable _click-clack_ that made every man's testicles shrink in fear.

"Hands up, punk," Warren Hanson said from somewhere behind him. Hauser complied, replicating the pose he had when Ziva had to cuff him. He heard slow, careful footsteps, and the man himself eased his way into the side of Hauser's view, strafing in a combat stance with his shotgun trained on the SEAL who'd come there with intent of murder. Their eyes locked, and neither man broke contact. Hauser's mind already began working, eliminating possible actions since the man wasn't in easy reach.

"Who do you think you are," Hanson said as he continued strafing slowly. "Coming into my home…bringing violence and destruction…Do you realize what you're doing? You're not just throwing your life away, you're spitting in the face of everything you stand for, as a Navy man, and as a SEAL."

It seemed Hanson's words were getting the better of his actions, as he took a step closer.

"Hanson," Gibbs croaked, trying to warn him, but the trapped agent went unheard. He turned, saw his back-up revolver, and reached for it. He stomach dropped when he saw the mere millimeters between his fingers and the weapon.

"I was Army, but I worked with SEALs, I know what the Navy Core Values are: Honor, Courage, and Commitment. You're committed, I'll give you that, but there's no honor in this, and you sure as hell aren't showing courage."

Another step…one more and Hauser would easily be able to get his hands on the weapon pointed at his chest. He kept his face focused, but inside, he was smiling that predator's smile. Just one more step…

"Hanson!" Gibbs tried again, and again, he went unheard. He doubled his struggles, but his reach didn't get any closer.

"No, this is cowardice," Hanson growled. "You lurk through the shadows, ambushing men who aren't even in a combat zone, never giving them a chance. We gave the _gooks_ better treatment, and it disgusts me that you'd do worse than that to American citizens you swore to fight for."

Another step.

"_Hanson!"_

"I oughta shoot you right now on principle," Hanson growled.

For one beat, there was no response. Then Hauser's mouthed curled into that grin…

If he were at peak condition, Hauser would've been able to disarm Hanson and have him on the ground under his foot before the man could even think of pulling the trigger. But with his ass beaten as it was, blood covering the side of his head and everything under his nostrils, he was only able to get his hands under the shotgun and point it up and away from him when Hanson's reflexes pulled the trigger.

_**BOOM**_

The weapon's kick, combined with the angle it was pointed and the grip (or lack thereof) said angle allowed Hanson, broke the retired colonel's index finger into a mangled mess, broke his collarbone as the stock chipped it, and threw him back. An unprepared Hauser felt his muscles burn as his hands were wrenched awkwardly by the shotgun, and he found himself falling into his target. For a moment, the two men tried to untangle themselves, but despite his battered condition, Hauser was the younger and faster man, and he was able to knock the shotgun away, gain a mounted position, and threw a few good punches until the retired colonel no longer struggled.

Hauser sat there, breathing heavily, before standing. He looked to Gibbs and saw him struggling to reach the revolver before calmly walking over and using the tip of his boot to gently nudge the weapon just an inch further away. He then turned, walked to and picked up his USP, and came back to the downed Hanson. He stood there, staring down at the beaten man before him and breathing heavily. His face remained bland as he pointed the USP at him.

"Their names," Hauser said. "Were Michael Cheritto, Melvin Schif, and Max Fanning. They were my team, and they're waiting for you in Hell."

_BANGBANGBANG_

Hauser jerked repeatedly as three holes popped in the front of his shirt, blood spattering the air before him before he fell to the ground on his back.

In the doorway to the kitchen stood Timothy McGee, the SIG shaking in his bloody hands. If Vince Hauser looked bad, then the agent himself looked like utter shit. He lowered the weapon and limped across the floor, past a stunned Gibbs and a barely stirring Ziva. He came to stand over Hauser, who was coughing and struggling to breathe through the holes in his chest and the blood in his mouth.

For a moment, Hauser and McGee only looked at each other, before McGee finally spoke.

"Amazing how underdogs win so much, huh Vince."

For a moment, the SEAL only looked at the agent towering over him. Then he remembered his words in the alley so long ago and smiled. Then he began chuckling, and finally laughing a deep raspy laugh. He heard the sounds of cars screeching outside, doors opening and shutting, feet running and voices shouting as men rushed in, all as Hauser laughed until the darkness took him.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note:** Sorry this one went up way later than usual. I had a doctor's appointment and spent the day out of the house.

Well, here it is folks. The end of the line, the final chapter. I'd like to say thanks for the praise this story's gotten in the form of 28 reviews, as of posting this chapter. I'd also encourage anyone who hasn't reviewed to please do so. It's nice to see people saying they like my work, but I really wanna see people saying _why_ they like my work, what it reminds them of, how it could improve, etc.

But whether you review or not, thanks for taking the time to read this at all. Over 1,300 hits, second-highest of all my fics, and all over the course of twelve, thirteen days.

Thanks for the support guys. See ya around next time.

**Disclaimer:** See chapter 1 for disclaimer.

* * *

**National Naval Medical Center, Bethesda, Maryland/October 3, 2010, 1421 Romeo**

It'd been twenty-four days since Agents Gibbs, McGee, and David were rushed and admitted to the Bethesda Naval Hospital. Gibbs had been lucky that the two .45 caliber rounds didn't penetrate his vest. As it was, he had a few broken ribs, severe bruising of his chest, and a cracked hip from the bookcase.

Ziva needed three stitches and a cast and sling for her arm. The worst problem was the concussion she had, which they kept her overnight for. Once she was cleared, she was released.

McGee had had the worst condition, though. His knee had to be treated for muscle damage from the dislocation and spontaneous reduction, and then limping around on it as much as he did to get from the car wreck to Hanson's home. His broken ribs needed to be taped, after x-rays ensured they'd caused no internal damage. He had a concussion of his own, needed proper stitches to replace the butterfly sutures (after the wounds had been thoroughly cleaned with antiseptic), and all in all just needed to be cleaned up.

The worst damage, though, had been to his eye. He'd actually needed two surgeries: one from a plastic surgeon to fix his broken orbital bone, as well as any eye muscles trapped or interfered with by the misshapen status of the socket, and one from an ophthalmologist to correct the damage to the eye itself. After a couple days in the hospital, he'd spent his recovery at home, generally sitting on his ass all day and avoiding reading and using the computer. Suffice to say, it was a miracle he didn't simply throw himself out of the window out of sheer boredom.

It was now the day when McGee would get the final verdict on the status of his eye. It didn't take a world-class investigator to see he was worried about it. He needed support for this moment, and so Director Leon Vance had decided to take the time out of his not-so-busy day (after he'd cancelled a few meetings) to make sure he was there to remind McGee that, no matter the state of his eye, he always had a place at NCIS.

After digging and finding the identity of McGee's doctor, he made his way through the halls of Bethesda Naval and turned the corner to find the waiting area to said doctor. Sitting there was Special Agent Gibbs, a pair of crutches beside him and a clearly uncomfortable (perhaps even pained) expression on his face.

"Hip fracture's a bitch, huh?" Vance asked as he took a seat beside his MCRT Leader.

"Yeah, Leon," Gibbs replied, his voice carrying an undertone of barely restrained temper. "Yeah, it is."

"How long's he been in there?"

"Just went in…doc looked pretty grim."

"You thinkin' bad news?"

Gibbs nodded regretfully. "He says he still can't see anything in it but a milky fuzz and faint shadows and outlines. Can't even discern faces with it, just a vague shape of the head."

Vance sighed. "It'd be a damn shame for him to lose his field agent status."

"Ya think?" Gibbs asked with a glare. Vance only returned a level look before they both returned to looking forward.

"He talk about his therapy sessions any?" Vance asked. McGee's experience had almost been the definition of traumatic, and to add onto it was the feelings of guilt and impotence.

"Not really," Gibbs replied. "He had me help with some exercise he was assigned, but that's all he's involved me in.

"What was the exercise?"

"We had a…long and in-depth discussion about how valuable and useful he was to the team and the agency as a whole."

"What'd you tell him?"

Gibbs's only reply was a glare. Vance shrugged, and then they went back to waiting.

"He do that exercise with anyone else?" Vance asked.

"Tony and Ziva."

"Where is DiNozzo, anyway?"

"ICU. Seein' if Hauser's kicked the bucket since we got here."

Vance nodded. "Man gets shot with three .40 Smith & Wesson hollow-points to the chest at seventeen feet, and none of 'em hit his heart or lungs. Must be the luckiest son of a bitch alive."

"Yeah," Gibbs said. "Lucky."

The image came to his mind of the man, his skin as white as paper and his hair as black as space, lying unconscious on a table naked with so many wires and tubes going in and coming out of him it was a miracle they had anywhere to insert the IVs. They'd been told he wouldn't survive the day when he was brought in around 1:32 AM on September 16, but he'd lasted two weeks and three days so far, always expected to keel at any minute. It seemed Vince Hauser was nothing if not tenacious.

"Look, Gibbs," Vance said, bringing his mind back to the present. "I've been hoping for the best for McGee, I really have…but we need to be prepared for the scenario that McGee can no longer meet the sight requirements for a field agent."

"You already got the personnel files on my desk, Leon?" Gibbs asked, his voice not without a little bit of accusation.

"No…no, filling out your team can wait. I'm talking about McGee's position within the agency."

Gibbs looked at Vance before returning his gaze forward. "You got something in mind?"

"Matter'a fact, I do. I've been talkin' to SECNAV lately, about the needs of the agency. He gave me the green light on my proposition, and so I pushed the paperwork through. We now have a new position in the agency: Adjutant to the Director."

"What's it entail?"

"He'd be a middle-man of sorts, keeping the director of the agency in direct awareness of the needs and operations of his agents. If some agents working a case need something, he'd be able to get it for them or, if unable to, he'd go to the director, explain why it was needed and why it should be granted from both the agents' prospective and the director's, and assists agents as they need it. He'd also be the third man on the totem pole."

"So if something happened to both you and the deputy director, McGee would be in charge of the whole agency?"

"If he accepted the offer for the position, yeah," Vance replied. "That'd also make him your superior."

Gibbs just shrugged. "He's done it before, once," he said.

"Means he'd be perfect."

"Why such a high spot and so much responsibility?" Gibbs asked.

Vance smiled. "Honestly, Jethro, I think Agent McGee has the potential to run this whole damn agency someday. Figured I'd start him early, let him gain experience in director-style work, before hopefully having him take the big chair someday."

Gibbs nodded. "He'd be a damn good director."

Beside them, the door opened and McGee stepped out. His face was frozen in a defeated expression, and both men knew they needed to make sure they didn't lose him.

* * *

**Federal Medical Center, Lexington, Lexington, Kentucky/January 15, 2011, 1547 Romeo**

The young man who purposefully strode through the halls of FMC, Lexington seemed almost a different man from who he was just three months earlier. The therapy and the support of his team really helped, and McGee's nightmares were now far fewer than multiple occasions a night. He still had more than his share, though, but he was learning to deal with it.

The biggest surprise for him, however, was how quickly he got over the way some people stared at his left eye. It was a tad off-center, and the iris and pupil seemed permanently glazed, but he'd adjusted to it faster than anything else. He was thankful, at least, that it wasn't his right eye. Since he was cross-eye-dominant, it meant that he could still blow off some steam on the range when some agents were just a bit too uncooperative. They seemed to think that, since they had a former agent taking and trying to sell their requests to the director personally, they were entitled to always getting them approved.

McGee listened to the rules of visitation as he handed over his firearm, ammo, and all personal belongings on him, confirmed that he understood and would fully abide by them, and followed the armed guard through the gate after it was buzzed open. He followed the guard through several halls until he was brought to a door. The guard opened it, and McGee entered before he was shut in.

Sitting there before him in a hospital bed, a gown covering the layers of gauze and tape on his chest, and handcuffed to said bed, was Vince Hauser. The SEAL, who was awaiting trial for four counts of first degree murder, eight counts second degree murder, five counts home invasion, four counts assault and battery (three against federal officers), one count kidnapping, and one count carjacking, was watching the door, obviously expecting a visitor. The way he raised his eyebrows showed he wasn't expecting this.

"Well well well, Agent McGee. Long time no see," he said with a friendly grin. "You look better."

"I'm told you do too," McGee replied from where he stood at the wall beside the door.

"How's the eye?"

McGee didn't answer immediately. Eventually though, stepped forward until he was halfway between the bed and the wall. "Busted," he finally said. "I can barely see out of it, and I lost my field agent status because of it."

"Mm," Hauser grunted. "Sorry to hear that."

McGee only looked at him for a moment. "But you're not sorry you did it. Not even a bit."

"Nope," Hauser said without hesitation. "Not in the least."

McGee's brow furrowed. "You know about Hanson, right? How he was the one who tried to help you and your team?"

"Yeah, and?"

"How does it make you feel? Knowing you almost killed a man in cold blood when your little 'mission' was already over?"

Hauser shrugged. "Doesn't make me feel anything."

McGee's brow furrowed even further, now giving him the appearance of a man trying to solve a very complex puzzle. The grimace on his face was one of utter incomprehension. "But why? How? How can you know you almost killed a man for no reason, killed seven others _for _no reason, beat me into losing my job and ruining the best part of my life, and not feel a thing about any of it?"

"Well first," Hauser started. "The key word in your first point is 'almost.' Obviously that means he's not dead, so there's no point worrying about it. Everything else was just necessary actions."

"Necessary for _what?_ Getting justice for your team? That wasn't justice, that was cold-blooded _revenge!_"

"Never said it wasn't," Hauser replied calmly. "It was simple payback. As old a byproduct of humankind as family."

McGee shook his head as he paced about, well out of reach of the foot of Hauser's bed. He finally stopped and looked back to Hauser.

"I just don't get it!" he said. "You did all those horrible things…don't show any remorse about it…but you show you know about right and wrong! You left me at the crash site when Tony and those other guys showed up. Your lawyer says you're pleading guilty to every charge filed against you. _You know the difference between right and wrong._ And…and you just don't _care_." McGee shook his head. "I don't get it."

Hauser raised an eyebrow. "So…what? You're here to try and figure it out?" he asked incredulously.

McGee nodded. "You're not some crazed killer robot. You're a person. A…A f-fucked up person like the rest of us!" It was obvious McGee never used that word, and Hauser almost laughed at how clearly it showed. "There's gotta be a reason."

Hauser shrugged again. "Nothin' to get, Agent McGee. Like you said, I just don't care. Yeah, I left you, 'cause like I said: I like you, and all you can do is testify against me. And again, you don't need to testify, 'cause I'm pleadin' guilty. I'm pleadin' guilty 'cause I did everything they say I did. You should know, you were there for most of it."

The look on McGee's face showed he wasn't satisfied, and he began pacing again. He stopped and reverted his attention back to Hauser when he started talking.

"Look, Agent McGee; stop worrying about it, it doesn't matter jack shit. Right, wrong, why, why not, none of it changes anything. I'm still in here, you're still out there, the people who're six feet under are still six feet under, and life goes on. Just deal with it and keep movin'."

McGee stared at him for a moment and shook his head. "That's not good enough. There's a reason. There always is."

Hauser looked at him for a moment and shook his head with a sigh…and a smile. "Aw hell, maybe there is. Anyone can find it, it's probably you. Might just be determined enough. Hell, look what you did to me." His pointed to each bullet wound with his left hand, the index finger and thumb forming the pantomime of a gun. "And I really didn't think you had a chance in hell…I was wrong before."

McGee looked at him for another moment before he finally spoke.

"Yeah. Yeah, you were."

McGee turned, walked to the door and knocked. It opened and allowed him to leave, before the door shut again, locking the monster who was really just a fucked up man away for good.

**Written by**

**Sergeant Conley**


End file.
